


Flattered, a Lamb; Threatened, a Lion

by Purple_Girl



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Eventual Smut, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder Husbands, On the Run, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), RV Travel, Slow Burn, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2018-12-17 14:19:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11853348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purple_Girl/pseuds/Purple_Girl
Summary: A continuation after the cliff-fall; Will and Hannibal pick up the pieces as their new dynamic develops, and their relationship grows. In hiding from the police, their wounds will heal, their burned bridges will be repaired, and they will meet a few old friends for some good, funny times. What fate will the Murder Husbands make for themselves?Additional tags will also be added as I upload new chapters, the few tags I've added so far are in relation to what I've written and what I know I'm going to write. This summary will most likely change as I go.





	1. After the Fall

It was ten after five in the morning, and the hard darkness of the night was giving way to the soft morning gloom. Every few minutes, a little more light illuminated the house on the clifftop, the small stretch of land around it, and the sprawled body of Francis Dolarhyde on the paved ground near the cliff edge. The light was slowly changing the copious amount of blood spilled around him from black to red; the defeated Dragon’s blackened wings transforming to rich carmine, a palette Blake himself might have been pleased with.

_It’s beautiful._

Will Graham stood inside the house, looking out of the large shattered window Dolarhyde had shot, his eyes trained on the body. The sky was thick with clouds; it had crossed his mind that it might rain, and he'd felt a pang of sorrow that the tableau outside might be destroyed that very morning by rainfall. It would be cleaned up and collected as evidence soon, of course, but until that inevitability, it seemed a shame that those proud wings could be washed away by nature herself, by the same force that arguably created them.

He absent-mindedly adjusted the towel tied around his waist, feeling vaguely irritated that the soft material was abrasive against his bare skin instead of pleasant, though it was hardly surprising considering his many cuts and scrapes. He wondered which had hurt the Dragon more; the knife slammed into his gut, the teeth tearing out his throat, or the moment of realisation that he was beaten.

Forcing himself to look away after indulging only a moment more, Will turned his back on the broken glass, and walked through the open-plan room towards the kitchen, side-stepping the puddles of wine and blotches of blood that decorated the floor. There was a substantial amount of it at the base of the small piano, where Hannibal had collapsed after the bullet which had destroyed the window hit him; there was also a little pool of it on the spot where Dolarhyde had rammed his knife into Will’s cheek, despite the fact that much of it had soaked into his shirt at the time.

The open wound on his face seemed to throb even more painfully with the memory. Upon reaching the kitchen, he sought a drinking glass, then had a quick look through the cabinets to find a drink, uncaring as to what. The first he came across was a sleek, label-less bottle of what he discovered to be cognac after opening it and taking a sniff; he poured himself a generous amount, and downed it in one quick swig, his face contorting into a grimace at the strength of it. However, it had a very pleasing after-taste, a hint of oranges. He idly wondered how much the bottle cost, before tipping another splash into his glass, and began to drink it, a little slower this time. He enjoyed the slight burn it left behind in his throat, but winced at the sting inside his inner cheek.

He sighed deeply to himself, setting down the empty glass and leaving the bottle on the counter beside it. There was an irrational part of him that wanted to keep drinking and just let his mind fog over, to forget the Hellish night altogether for as long as possible, to block out the pain, but his rational brain fortunately remained in control; he knew he needed to focus, and work out what the Hell he was going to do. There was no time for distractions.

He made his way then to the larger of the house’s two bedrooms, treading quietly, and stepped over the pile of filthy, sodden clothes he had discarded at the side of the double bed, and then over the heap of bloody towels beside them. He switched on the bedside lamp; his lips closed tightly together and his eyes became nervously wide, as he looked at the bloodstain which had appeared through the tan cotton bedsheet covering the unconscious Hannibal Lecter.

Kneeling down beside him, Will gingerly lifted the sheet to check on the gunshot wound; the makeshift towel bandage he had affixed a little while ago had come loose, presumably due to Hannibal moving at some point in his sleep, leaving the wound free to bleed. The broken flesh gaped at him angrily, bright red and sticky with blood; the many bruises on Hannibal’s skin were dark purple, and he was dotted with what seemed like dozens of nicks and grazes. There was a particularly nasty-looking cut just above his left knee. 

Will covered his mouth with his hands and took a deep breath, his mind racing as he looked up and down Hannibal’s naked body, at the innumerable injuries he had no idea how to treat, noting how pale his skin was, almost grey in the low light; the other man had lost a lot of blood. He tentatively touched the back of one hand to Hannibal’s forehead, relieved that he didn’t feel hot. He didn’t have a fever, not yet at least; that was something. 

Will’s difficulty in rousing Hannibal after managing to get back to the house was deeply troubling him, for so many reasons, not least that when morning broke, there would be police helicopters searching for them; he could hardly believe that there hadn’t been any sign of them already. The FBI may not know about the safe house itself, but it hadn’t taken him and Hannibal long to get there in the police car they had commandeered after the ill-fated fake prison transfer, so the search perimeter of the helicopters would definitely include the clifftops. They would see Dolarhyde’s body lying outside and all the spilled blood, then descend on the place in no time. Will knew they could not be here when that happened.

_We could have been out of here already,_ he chided himself, then pushed the thought away.

**It had been a miracle that they hadn’t been separated when their prone bodies had struck the water, the force of it hurting more than almost anything Will could remember, like slamming into concrete, and freezing concrete at that; freezing cold stone that dissolved around them, and pulled them unceremoniously under the water. Hannibal had been almost completely beneath him when they met the water, taking the brunt of the landing, and he had been knocked into unconscious right away; his grip on Will had relinquished instantly, his arms limply floating down to his sides, his head lolling backwards.**

**Something had switched on in Will’s mind at that moment; where seconds before he had felt only a calm confidence that this was exactly as things should be, suddenly the dark, peaceful curtain that had lowered over his eyes on the clifftop was jerked back up, and the terror of their position consumed him. He could hardly see a thing in the ocean’s all-encompassing darkness, and the strength it had cost him to keep a tight hold on the listless Hannibal made it agonisingly difficult to kick his way to the surface.**

**His lungs had burned with a terrible ache as he fought not to take the breath he desperately needed, struggling to move upwards, frantic to feel the air on his face again, unable to see Hannibal in the darkness even though he was so close to him, but painfully aware that he had passed out and would sink forever into the pitch blackness underneath them if Will didn’t cling onto him for dear life. Even amidst the agony, panic, and suffocating dark, the thought had horrified him; he’d felt a flash of dim surprise at just how dreadful the thought was, considering the situation.**

Will leant his elbows on the bed, hands still clasped to his mouth, and glanced up at Hannibal’s face; the features were strained even as he slept, as though even dreaming was too great an effort for his damaged body. 

**The moment that they had broken the surface, which felt like it had taken hours, Will had screamed at that face to wake up; his shoulder and face were in agony from his knife wounds, while the impact from the cold waters seemed to have trapped his muscles in a near-crippling vice, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to swim with Hannibal’s dead weight in his arms.**

**Without anything solid to brace against, Will had somehow managed to clutch at the back of Hannibal’s head enough to force mouth-to-mouth on him, blowing with as much strength as he could muster down his airway, continuing to yell at him in between breaths, his exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him as each exhalation into Hannibal’s mouth made him feel unbearably dizzy.**

**He’d been close to sobbing in his desperation for a response from the man in his arms, when Hannibal had suddenly spluttered and coughed up a lungful of water, his body shaking violently as he choked and fought to breathe, while Will struggled to keep a grip on him as he squirmed. Will felt a massive flood of relief as Hannibal’s eyes flickered, seeing only their whites for a few seconds, until they slowly opened, lids heavy but with a faint light of life dawning in their dark centres.**

**It had taken a couple of minutes even with their close proximity, but Hannibal’s eyes had finally found Will’s own, and managed to focus on him. Hannibal had moved his mouth as though attempting to speak, but no sounds had made it out. He’d looked dazedly around them, at the vast expanse of water, a look close to bafflement coming over his features; then he’d looked back into Will’s face, with an expression of confusion, and something else, something Will’s distraught mind couldn’t interpret.**

Now, back in the relative safety of the house – for the time being, at least – Will’s mind was struggling still, unsure about what to do next, and worrying about Hannibal’s condition. He felt vaguely ridiculous for his concern, since it was his actions that had put them here, yet there it was.

He tried making a mental checklist of what needed to be done, and the enormity of the situation was like a lead weight on his capacity to concentrate. He was in a lot of pain, which was already clouding his concentration; Hannibal was unconscious and still bleeding; they had very little time left before the police were sure to find the house, and they needed to get the Hell out of there.

He knew his cheek and shoulder needed to be cleaned and stitched. His and Hannibal’s many small cuts could be ignored for now, but Hannibal’s knee needed a stitch, and God only knew what was to be done for the bullet wound. The bullet had passed through, he remembered that much. He was fairly confident it hadn’t hit any vital organs, his reasoning being that Hannibal hadn’t bled out on the floor, and while he’d been awake he had mustered enough energy to swim with Will to where the bluff met the choppy water. He had also managed to help him with the treacherous climb once they’d both pulled themselves into position to get a decent foothold; Will had been so relieved that they hadn’t been carried far from the cliff face by the water, he could’ve wept. He doubted they’d have had enough energy for the climb if they’d had to swim far, or against an aggressive tide.

Will shook his head in quiet disbelief, wondering again just how on earth they had survived the ascent without mishap; it had taken the better part of three hours, taking the greatest of care with each step, but they had made it without falling, reaching the top and collapsing together in a shivering, bloody heap. Will had basically had to drag Hannibal from where they had emerged back to the house, following the cliff edge, and in spite of his agonised joints and the encumbering weight of the bigger man, they had made it there in more or less one piece.

_We were exceptionally lucky tonight,_ Will thought to himself, _whether we deserve it or not_.

Grunting with frustration, he leaned in closer to Hannibal, and tapped the older man’s gaunt face with a closed hand as firmly as he dared.

“Hannibal,” he said loudly, “you need to wake up. I need your help. Please.” He patted the pale cheek again. 

No response. Wait, was there? The tiniest shift of his head? Will wasn’t sure, or if his increasingly worried, pain-addled mind was playing tricks on him.

“Hannibal?” he repeated, louder this time. He tried giving Hannibal’s cheek a firm pinch. “Hannibal!”

There was definitely a slight twitch of the sleeping man’s mouth then, a minute flicker of his eyelids. A flutter of his hand, a twitch of his fingers.

Will watched the movement with renewed hope, and pinched him again, “Hannibal? Wake up, dammit!”

With a low groan, Hannibal squeezed his closed eyes even more tightly shut, turning his head in the direction of Will’s voice. He brought up a hand to his temple, pressing there with his fingertips, obviously experiencing pain. After a few moments, he finally opened his eyes; his gaze landed on Will once he managed to focus, an echo of his reaction while in the water.

“Will,” he croaked softly, his voice strained, as though his vocal chords were too tight.

Will nodded, “Listen, we don’t have much time. It won’t be long until the police find this place, so we need to get out of here, but I don’t know how to move you like this. We’re both really beaten up. Did you have a plan, for after Dolarhyde?” 

“Are we… at the house?” Hannibal asked, looking dazedly around the dimly-lit room.

“Yes,” Will replied, concern tightening around his stomach again. “Don’t you remember coming back here?”

Hannibal frowned slightly, and looked very slowly back towards Will, his disorientation seeming to fog his vision.

“I don’t remember where… were we in the water?”

Will swallowed hard and nodded again, before dropping his gaze to the blood-stained bed. He took a deep breath.

“Yes, we were in the water. I… I took us over the cliff edge,” he said softly. “We climbed back up, and then we made it back here.” He paused, before adding, “You hit the water hard. Are you… umm…”

He stopped talking and shook his head, sighing to himself. Asking if Hannibal was alright seemed like a ridiculously obvious and utterly stupid question. Of course he wasn’t alright; he’d been shot and then hurled into the ocean, it was a miracle he was still breathing at all.

“No plan… not for this eventuality, at least,” Hannibal murmured, and winced at the pain as he shifted slightly on the bed, gritting his teeth, and pulling himself up into a weak semblance of a sitting position. He looked down at himself, his eyes travelling over his injuries, as though he were taking stock of each one. He lightly touched the skin surrounding the gunshot wound, and drew in a sharp breath at the pain the contact brought. 

Will watched him slowly flex his fingers, then move his feet around in slow circles. He rolled his head, first left, then right. With great effort, he closed his eyes and reached down to gently tap two fingertips against his thighs, then grimaced hard as he repeated the action just below his knees. He grunted with discomfort as he lay back down flat on the bed.

“No loss of sensation,” he explained, opening his tired eyes. “I think I could walk, perhaps… if I have to.”

“You’ll have to,” Will confirmed. “Soon.”

Hannibal nodded, and craned his neck to look down at his bullet wound again. “This is our biggest problem.”

“What do we do about it?” Will asked, “Please tell me you have some kind of medical supplies here? I couldn’t find anything in the bathroom.”

“In the closet... the other bedroom. Medical bag,” Hannibal replied, letting his head fall back onto the pillow. Talking was clearly a great effort for him, and his exhaustion was showing; Will found himself wishing he could just leave him to rest, but he knew he needed his assistance if they had any hope of leaving before the cops arrived.

Will got to his feet and hurried to the smaller bedroom. He pulled open the closet door, finding several hanging suit jackets, a few random boxes on a shelf behind them, and a piece of exercise equipment he didn’t recognise. On the floor to the far left, tucked behind an empty picture frame, sat the large black medical bag. It was promisingly heavy.

He returned to Hannibal’s side with the bag, setting it on the bed. He opened it and started rooting through the contents; there were packets of gauze, large bandages, a few bottles of painkillers, a bottle of some other kind of pills, and a small packet containing butterfly stitch strips. There was a plastic bottle of saline underneath the bandages. There was also a clear cellophane pouch that contained a handful of what Will believed to be IV fluid bags, sterile needles and some thin tubing, a bottle of sterile rubbing alcohol, and a packet of alcohol-free cleansing wipes. 

“What do we need from here?” he asked.

Hannibal didn’t reply; it seemed he had passed out again. Will could smell the blood from his wound; the air had a coppery quality to it, and Hannibal’s skin looked paler than Will had ever seen it. God help them if he needed blood; there would be no way to get a transfusion inside him without going to a hospital, which was obviously out of the question. Will had no idea what his own blood type was.

“Hey, Hannibal,” Will said softly, giving him a nudge. 

Hannibal’s eyes flickered open again, and he gave his head a little shake.

“You found the bag,” he murmured. 

“Tell me what to do. We have to deal with your bullet wound, your knee, my face and my shoulder,” Will replied. “Anything else will have to wait.”

“You can use the wipes and saline… to clean the wounds,” Hannibal said slowly, concentrating on getting his words right. “No alcohol. Dab them dry with a gauze pad. Butterfly stitches are probably inadequate… for your injuries, but they’ll have to do… we can stitch properly later, with thread. Bandage your shoulder.”

“Alright, but what about your bullet wound? It's pretty wide. We can’t exactly put these on that,” Will said, holding up the packet of butterfly strips. 

Hannibal shook his head, “we can’t close that one. It’d do more harm than good. We have to clean it… pack it with gauze, secure a moist pad, front and back… bandage it. Change the pads often. Hopefully it will heal… without developing infection.”

Will opened the packet of cleansing wipes, and began to rub one on and around the gash on Hannibal’s knee, followed by a squirt of the saline, intending to quickly patch up what he figured to be the easiest wound first. He tried to be delicate, but Hannibal groaned softly at the sting regardless. Will wasn’t accustomed to seeing Hannibal showing any signs of weakness or pain, and he found it extremely unnerving; not only because it was highly irregular, but because he realised that if Hannibal was unable to keep his usual mask of composure secured, then the events of the night must have harmed him far more than Will had first surmised. 

Luckily, though the knee cut appeared to be deep, the bleeding had mostly stopped, and securing the butterfly strips proved easier than Will had thought; as his arm brushed against Hannibal’s left thigh, Will became suddenly very aware that Hannibal was still naked, and he drew his hands away awkwardly.

“Our clothes were soaked and dirty,” he began, glancing down at the rumpled garments on the floor nearby, “are there more clothes here we can wear? The other room’s closet only had jackets.”

Hannibal looked down at himself, as though only just recognising that he was naked, but seemed unconcerned. He turned his gaze towards the large walk-in closet on the right side of the room, and nodded slightly in its direction.

“In there,” he murmured, “there should be… some shirts, and trousers. Nothing in your size, I’m afraid.”

“Better than going out there in a towel,” Will sighed, attempting a smile, and failing. 

Hannibal chuckled softly, then coughed from the tickle it caused in his throat. “We don’t want to… turn any heads while we try… to get out of here unnoticed.”

Will did smile then, and was surprised to hear a small laugh follow. It hurt his face, but he also felt relief at the momentarily broken tension in the room, and relief at the fact that Hannibal had the presence of mind to jest. He gathered a few gauze pads and another wipe for the bullet wound, and glanced up at Hannibal; he was watching him, his expression once again unreadable, as it so often was. Will cleared his throat and reached from the saline again, feeling Hannibal’s eyes on him all the while. Without looking at Hannibal, he pulled a little of the bedsheet over to cover the other man’s crotch, before leaning in and beginning to clean the wound as carefully as he could. 

After Will had packed a little gauze into the saline-washed frontal wound and secured a pad over it, he helped Hannibal sit forward to get at the entry wound on his back; Hannibal grunted with the pain, his breathing laboured and heavy as he moved. Will encouraged him to put his right arm around Will’s chest and lean into him for support, while the wound was cleaned. It wasn’t quite as angry-looking as the exit wound, but it was equally puffy, with bruising gathering all around it like storm clouds.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t try to stitch it?” Will asked, more for something to say rather than genuinely questioning the doctor’s instruction. The silence was bothering him, although he wasn’t entirely sure why. He felt like there was possibly something Hannibal wanted to say, but was reserving for when his head was clearer; there were several things they would have to talk about, and the weight of those future conversations was tugging at Will’s scalp.

“Closing a wound like this… often obstructs healing,” Hannibal replied. “It can trap infection. Packing keeps it from closing over too quickly… we’ll know infection isn’t setting in if the flesh stays pink. Moisture encourages new skin growth.” He took a deep breath, and dropped his head to the right, onto Will’s shoulder. The deep, even breaths that followed suggested he had passed out again.

Will didn’t disturb him, deciding it was better to finish the painful packing of the lacerated bullet hole without Hannibal having to feel it. While he placed the piece of rolled-up gauze into the wound, he listened to Hannibal’s breathing, so close to his ear; he could hear a slight rattle lingering behind each inhale, recalling that Hannibal had clearly inhaled some water while he was unconscious in the sea. His slightly stubble-rough cheek felt prickly against Will’s bare shoulder. The deep rumble of his breathing was almost soothing however, and Will almost found himself unwilling to move once he was done with the wound. He was so tired, part of him wanted to close his eyes and relinquish his aching body to sleep right there alongside Hannibal. 

He felt his eyelids start to droop, and shook himself out of it quickly with a soft gasp. He couldn’t fall asleep, they had to hurry. There would be time to sleep once they got somewhere else; he didn’t know where, but anywhere else would do, at least for a while.

Will managed to bind a bandage around Hannibal’s middle and lay him back down without waking him, then headed into the bathroom with the medical bag. The harsh fluorescent light bouncing off the brilliantly white walls instantly made his retinas feel like they were burning; he'd had to restrain the immediate urge to strike the bulb right out of the fixture when he had been searching for supplies in there earlier. He shielded his eyes for a moment, then looked closely at his cheek in the mirror, grimacing as he imagined the scar it could leave him. But then again, what was one more scar? At least Dolarhyde’s knife had only ruptured his cheek, and not his eye. Life in Hannibal’s orbit came with scars, that was a given, one he was well aware of; his mind began to tick as it wanted to explore the current implications of that thought, but once again he forced it out of the way. Those thoughts could be contemplated when the threat of the police wasn’t bearing quite so firmly down on them. 

He made quick work of cleaning his facial wound and placing the stitch strips to hold it together, being less delicate with himself than he had been with Hannibal. Once cleared of the dirt and dried blood, he was relieved to see the wound wasn’t nearly as wide as he’d thought, it was just deep; it was thin enough that the scar could heal with minimal visibility. He could feel the slit from the knife inside his cheek, probing it delicately with his tongue; he squirted some of the saline into his mouth and swirled it around like mouthwash, wrinkling his nose at the taste. When he spat into the sink, the clear liquid was laced with bloody streaks.

Will took a sharp breath as he prodded lightly at the wound on his shoulder. Dirt from the cliff climb had embedded itself in there, and he was sorely tempted to douse it with some of the medical alcohol in the bag, but thought better of it; Hannibal knew what he was talking about, and if he said no alcohol, then Will would defer to his judgement. He used some more of the saline to clean it instead, lightly brushed it dry, and laid the butterfly strips. God, it hurt. The wound wasn’t as badly bruised as the one on Hannibal’s abdomen, but it was getting there. Will placed a pad over it, and struggled to wrap a bandage around himself, only just managing to secure it without dropping it and having to start again.

The hum of the bathroom light was grating into his head. He picked up the medical supplies and flicked the light off, stepping gratefully back out into the dimmer light of the main room. He left the bag sitting on a coffee table, and went back into the bedroom where Hannibal slept. 

Rooting through the closet, he pulled out two dark blue linen shirts, and two pairs of black slacks; there were some lighter-coloured clothes that he would have preferred under normal circumstances, but he quickly decided that if their wounds leaked any blood and someone spotted the stains on white shirts, they might alert someone. He didn’t want to take that risk, so it had to be dark clothes. There were several fairly new pairs of running shoes in boxes in the bottom of the closet, and he was relieved that Hannibal’s shoe size matched his own. He could find no socks or underwear, but beggars couldn’t be choosers; they weren’t necessities.

He pulled on a pair of the slacks, and slowly shrugged a shirt on, taking care not to jar his injured shoulder. He stepped into the shoes and laced them up, grunting quietly at an uncomfortable ache that sparked in his hand. When he was dressed, he laid the other clothes on the edge of the bed for Hannibal, then went back into the closet. He rummaged around for a minute before finding what he’d hoped for; a large overnight bag. He opened it and set it down on the bedroom floor, and half-filled it with some more of the clothes from the closet. He also found a soft cotton blanket, and added it to the bag.

Next, he carried it into the main room of the house, and began to search the kitchen for non-perishable food. It wasn’t well-stocked at all, but he did turn up a few good-quality cans of varying vegetables, and a bottle of spring water. He also took a couple of unopened bottles of spirits; if they ran out of painkillers, it’d suffice instead. He packed them all, then returned to the kitchen; he opened a cutlery drawer and after a quick look, took out a short, exceptionally sharp fillet knife, complete with rubber safety sheath. He pocketed it, lamenting the misplacement of his firearm. Further searching revealed a similar knife, obviously from the same set, also with a safety sheath, and put that in his other pocket to give to Hannibal. The doctor might be a formidable opponent while unarmed under normal circumstances, but in his weakened state, Will didn’t want to take any chances.

Will grabbed a pair of sealed toothbrushes from the bathroom cabinet, electing to do so with the light off, going by the light seeping in from the main room instead. He also took the last remaining clean towel, a couple of new rolls of toilet paper, and a small washcloth. Adding them to the overnight bag, he looked around, wracking his brain for anything else lying around that might come in handy. He was too exhausted, too sore, and too hungry he realised, to think of what else they might need. He dumped the unused contents of the medical bag in along with everything else, zipped the case shut, and made his way back to the bedroom.

He picked up the clothes he’d set aside for Hannibal, and knelt down beside him, reaching out to give him a gentle shove. Hannibal’s eyes opened more quickly this time, and he looked sleepily at Will, a messy portion of his hair drooping down over his forehead. 

“We need to get you dressed and get to the car,” Will said to him. “The cop car won’t be ideal if we run into another one, but it’s too risky to steal something else, we can’t risk getting pulled over.”

Hannibal nodded and tried to sit up, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he winced in pain. He looked at Will and gestured his hand in a request for support. “Please.”

Will stood up and helped turn Hannibal’s legs so they were hanging off the bed, then leaned down to get an arm underneath his back, and counted to three to prepare him before hoisting him up onto his feet. Hannibal growled through gritted teeth at the hot pain circulating through his body. He stretched an arm out to brace against the bed’s headboard, to allow Will to grab the clothes.

Gingerly, Will helped Hannibal into the shirt, mindful not to brush against his wound where possible, and began to do the buttons up for him. He glanced at Hannibal’s face as he fastened the shirt; the older man was watching him again, as though he wanted to speak, but remained silent. Hannibal’s hooded eyes were glimmering, brighter than they had been up until that moment, even though they were still misty with weariness. Will felt caught in the pull of the gaze, and held it unwittingly for several moments, his own eyes betraying a mixture of confusion, fear, and the same desire to speak he read in Hannibal’s eyes, even though he wasn’t entirely sure yet what he wanted to say. 

He realised he’d finished doing up the buttons, and broke the connection with a flustered look, distractedly picking a piece of lint from the shirt’s lapel. He picked up the trousers and knelt down, bunching them up so Hannibal only had to lift his feet slightly to step directly into the leg-holes. Will began to pull them up, averting his eyes as he drew them over Hannibal’s groin, and fastened them at the top. Indicating to him to hold onto the headboard again, Will helped him into the running shoes, and tied them for him.

“So, you think you can make it to the car?” Will asked, moving so Hannibal could put an arm across his back again and lean into him for support. 

He swayed a little on his feet, but nodded, “As much as I’d like to stay here and sleep… I’ve no desire to be incarcerated again now.”

“I’ve packed a few things, it’s not much, but we’ll worry about that once we’re away from here,” Will replied. 

“There is a large blue envelope in the closet,” Hannibal grunted, “concealed in a grey jacket. It contains some ID, passports, bank cards... and a fair amount of cash. We’ll need the cash. Grab the envelope please.” 

“I’ll come back for it and the bag as soon as you’re in the car,” Will said, relieved to hear something positive. They couldn’t hide from the police for long without money, and his own credit card would probably already be flagged for use.

They walked together into the main room, moving slowly, both for Hannibal’s sake and Will’s, whose injuries were howling in pain from having the additional strain of bearing half of Hannibal’s weight. There were a few dizzying moments where Will thought Hannibal was going to stumble and fall over, but after a few minutes they made it through the house to the front door. 

Will pulled it open, and the cool morning air greeted them both. It was much lighter now, which made Will’s stomach lurch nervously. He looked around anxiously as he and Hannibal hobbled along the winding path behind the house down to where they had left the stolen police car, wishing he'd thought to drive it right up to the house. There was very little wind, and every time he heard the rustle of a bush or tree, Will’s heart thudded in his chest until he spotted whatever bird or squirrel had made the sound.

Once he’d opened the passenger door and helped Hannibal into the seat, he watched him sink down against the leather, closing his eyes with a long sigh. Will reached into his pocket for one of the knives, touching the rubber with his thumb, and paused; was giving Hannibal a knife really a sensible idea? He’d almost killed the man just a few hours ago. Will had seen no anger in his eyes, but Hannibal’s face was so difficult to read even while he was so debilitated, Will wasn’t entirely confident he could tell for sure.

Pursing his lips, he brought the knife out of his pocket and gently nudged Hannibal’s arm until he opened his eyes, and Will held out the knife to him.

“Just in case,” Will murmured, “since I lost my gun.” As an afterthought, he added, “I took one too.”

Hannibal accepted the knife, staring at it a moment, before slipping it into the pocket of his slacks. He didn’t say anything, but nodded in discerning acknowledgement, holding Will’s eyes a beat longer than would’ve been comfortable for most people. He then let his head fall back against the headrest, and closed his eyes again.

While Will was moving slower from fatigue and his aching joints, without having to prop up Hannibal he was able to walk much quicker, so it only took him a minute to return to the house for the bag he’d packed. He went to the closet with the various jackets, singling out the simple grey one right away, since it stood out against the more colourful and patterned styles he was used to seeing Hannibal wear. He located the envelope, which was bulky with its contents, and secured it inside the overnight case. 

He brought the bag down to the car and tossed it past Hannibal onto the back seat, before closing the door on the sleeping man’s side. Will climbed into the driver’s side, and turned the key they’d left in the ignition. The engine growled to life.

Will looked over at Hannibal, who hadn’t stirred with the sudden noise of the car. The usual lines of his face seemed harsher, and in the daylight, Will could see just how ashen his normally tanned skin was, and that rattle of his breathing could be heard even against the soft rumble of the car’s engine. His lips were slightly parted, his hands lying loosely in his lap. He looked so fragile, and yet even in spite of the night’s events, when he was awake he still radiated a soft confidence that Will found himself envious of. 

Will didn’t feel confident right now. He felt maddeningly on edge, as well as suffering the sensation that his nerve endings had all been dipped in acid. The prospect of driving the car out onto the road with other cars, other people, seemed horrendous to him. He knew that part of his strained mental state came from a desperate need for sleep, and the pain encompassing his body, but that wasn’t the whole reason.

Still watching Hannibal’s chest rise and fall, Will knew the hot discomfort in the very pit of his stomach came from a cocktail of feelings he had mixed for them both, and then drunk too fast. Hannibal needed him right now, to help him recover, while he wasn’t strong enough to fend for himself. Will’s mind spun with possibilities, and it made him feel nauseous.

What might happen once Hannibal regained his usual vigour? Would he turn on Will for the reckless actions that had almost killed them both? Would he demand an explanation, and gut him once again if he didn’t like what he heard? Maybe he would simply wait for an opportune moment and then attack in retaliation with the devastatingly sharp knife Will had given him, without offering the chance for Will to explain himself. What if… he developed an infection, and didn’t make it?

_What if he does make it… but then decides to go and leave me behind?_

Will quickly opened the door and leaned his upper body out of the car, vomiting violently onto the driveway. He hadn’t eaten in hours, and all he coughed up was bile which burned his throat, and was alarmingly streaked with the blood he’d swallowed after his cheek was cut open. Taking a deep, gasping breath, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sat back up in his seat, leaning back and closing his eyes tightly, his posture mirroring Hannibal’s.

In between his tumultuous, frightening thoughts, Will’s mind was screaming at him to hurry, to leave the property now, but all he could do was sit and listen to the painfully loud thrumming of his heart in his ears, taking deep breaths and trying not to hyperventilate. He clenched his hands into fists on his legs, and ground his teeth together, pleading with his body to calm down.

After a few moments of building panic, Will felt Hannibal’s hand press down on his right hand, and his eyes shot open. He turned his head towards him, his back rigid against the seat; Hannibal was staring at him with those inscrutable brown eyes, his brow ever so slightly furrowed. Will looked down at the hand covering his; the skin was so pale, but felt warm. He dropped his tense shoulders wearily, feeling a bead of sweat trickle slowly down from his temple to his chin.

“Are you alright, Will?” 

Hannibal’s accented voice was quiet, but it filled every space in the car and Will’s head.

Will looked at the other man’s face again. “No, I don’t think so.” His lips pressed firmly together, and shook his head slowly. He opened his mouth to say something else, but came up empty again; he had so many thoughts jostling together, his shattered brain couldn’t single any out. He couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t bring himself to reach for the steering wheel, and could barely even feel the chair underneath him. He felt caught in an exhausted void where nothing felt solid.

Except Hannibal’s hand. He could feel that. He focused his eyes on it, swallowing hard, willing his mind to settle. He deliberately took a very slow breath in through his nose, held it for several seconds, then released it through his mouth, an old exercise Hannibal himself had told him about. Hannibal’s hand was warm. A breath in. There was a very faint, old scar on one of his fingers. Hold the breath. His nails were clipped short, grubby underneath from the climb. A breath out. Start again.

Hannibal remained silent, watching Will as the younger man kept his eyes locked on their hands. He could see that Will was precariously close to a bad anxiety attack, and that he was struggling with too many thoughts in his frantically over-tired mind. Hannibal knew at least some of what was going on in Will’s head, but didn’t say a word. He simply tightened his grip on the trembling hand, patient and unwavering.

Gradually, the shaking began to subside, and Will’s breathing began to return to normal; after a few minutes of allowing his worked-up body and mind to ease back into his previous, more manageable level of worry, he dragged his gaze away from the comfort of Hannibal’s hand. 

His eyes flitted up to meet Hannibal’s, who simply lowered his head slightly in an almost-nod, a gentle expression resting at the corners of his mouth, not one of mocking or amusement; rather, it was solace, that he would be alright because he was capable, because Hannibal believed he would be. There was nothing negative in that look.

Will nodded faintly back, unable to summon a smile in return, but instead lifted his head up higher in an attempted gesture of assurance. He turned back to the windscreen, and he put his free hand on the steering wheel, his confidence bolstered a little by overcoming the encroaching meltdown. 

He didn’t look down when he felt Hannibal’s hand lift away. He moved the gear stick into position, pressed his foot against the acceleration, and brought his hand up to join the other at the wheel. The car started to move slowly, and although his nerves were still wired, Will kept his chin up and his eyes forward, and drove down the length of the driveway. 

He heard the soft growl of a slight snore from the seat beside him as Hannibal had slipped into unconscious again, and Will concentrated on the somehow calming sound; it helped him quiet his fearful, conflicting thoughts. They would be alright, for now. For now.


	2. A Place To Sleep

It had only been twenty minutes before Will started to worry about the possibility of passing out at the wheel of the car. He couldn’t seem to recall the last time he’d actually managed to get some sleep, and he almost felt as if his mind was physically pushing at him to shut down. The night had been traumatic on his mind as well as his body, and he ached to let go and rest them both.

He also felt extremely conspicuous in the police car. While ditching it would be preferable, neither he nor Hannibal were in any shape to trek anywhere on foot, and he didn’t even know yet exactly where they were going. Technically, they should be getting the Hell out of the country as quickly as possible, but it would be impossible to fly in the state they were in; they needed to lie low and heal somewhat, before they could think about anything else. 

Will’s eyelids drooped low again and he shook his head sharply, following that by giving the uninjured side of his face a hard slap for good measure. His gaze then fell to the glove box, and he popped it open; as he had hoped, there were several CDs in there. He reached out to leaf through them quickly, and selected one he wasn’t familiar with but which looked from the album art like it might be rock music. He pulled the disc out and slid it into the player on his left.

It began to play automatically. He had been accurate in his estimation, and a thunderous drumbeat leapt from the speaker, followed by a fast guitar shred and a male singer with a powerful vibrato. Will ignored his headache and tweaked the volume dial to turn the music up, hoping it might help keep him awake at least long enough to focus on what to do next.

After a couple of songs, he decided it seemed to be working; despite everything, he actually found himself enjoying the music, and had subconsciously begun lightly tapping one foot.

“It might’ve been kinder of you to let me die in the ocean,” Hannibal murmured suddenly, opening his bleary eyes with a grimace. 

“I know it’s not exactly to your taste, but consider it a necessary evil; it’s keeping me from dozing off while I drive,” Will replied. He glanced to the side, and held back the chuckle that rose in him at the scowl of displeasure Hannibal was directing at the CD player. 

“In that case, as frightful as it is, we’d best keep it on. I’d prefer it over the experience of a car crash… marginally,” Hannibal said dryly. “Also, I almost certainly have a concussion; I ought to try staying awake as much as I can,” he added, groaning softly as he pulled himself up from his slump and sat back properly against the seat. 

“I can’t wait to reach a place where we can sleep,” Will sighed. “I don’t suppose you have another of your safe houses nearby that nobody knows about?”

“Not nearby, no. We can’t go much further like this... we both need to rest. We may have to resort to a motel,” Hannibal said, flinching slightly with closed eyes as a particularly shrill guitar solo shrieked from the car speaker.

“We’re going to look suspicious to any place with a half-decent reputation,” Will muttered. “We both look pretty rough right now, to put it mildly.”

“There’s also the matter of our stolen police vehicle,” Hannibal mused. “We can’t pull up somewhere in this.”

“Once we’ve settled on somewhere, I’ll park a ways away. I look like I’ve been to war, but while your face will be out there already after your ‘escape’, mine hopefully doesn’t have the same criminal warning attached to it,” Will replied. “I’ll check us in, then I’ll come get you. Someone will discover the car before long, I’m not sure what the best solution to that is; I can’t risk running it into a lake or anything, not in broad daylight.” Will flexed his knuckles on the wheel, and added, “I’m definitely not strong enough to ditch it far away and then walk back to wherever we land.”

When he didn’t get a response, he looked over at Hannibal, who had dozed off again despite the loud music. Will was alarmed at how pale the older man’s face looked under the morning sunlight pouring through the window. His fears over the possibility of needing an impossible to access blood transfusion resurfaced, and he pursed his lips tensely, his brow creased with concern. Hannibal needed proper rest, in a bed, with painkillers, and he needed it now; they’d only been in the car half an hour and he already looked worse than he had at the cliff house.

Will began watching out of the windows in earnest for road signs marking motels, hotels, anything; he quickly became frustrated at the lack of options. He rubbed a hand distractedly over the lower half of his face, and kept his hand pressed against his mouth, despite the sting that settled in his facial wound from the pressure. He wasn’t sure how long he could continue to keep at bay the panic attack which had threatened to consume him back at the house.

The road, which had been fairly vacant thus far thanks to the earliness of the day, soon became busier with traffic as more people started making their way to work; Will took the next available right off onto a quieter slip road, drumming his fingertips on the steering wheel distractedly to avoid concentrating too hard on the unpleasant thought of another driver recognising them through their windows. He hadn’t had the opportunity to see any news yet, but there was no doubt that Hannibal’s mugshot would be circulating after the planned escape had gone so awry, and left several officers dead in the road.

Will didn’t linger on the thought of all those dead men; they were inconsequential. He waited to see if remorse, or sympathy, would come to him, but they didn’t. There was only a calm indifference. He supposed that he should be at least somewhat surprised at his lack of feeling, but when he thought back to the moment he had stood amongst their bodies, watching Hannibal casually shove a dead cop from their current car and pull it around, inviting him in, he realised he hadn’t really cared at the time, either.

**_”Going my way?”_**

_**More than he knew, ultimately.**_

After a moment, Will shook his head slowly, far too tired to acknowledge those pressing thoughts. He was relieved to find that leaving the highway had turned out to be a fortuitous choice, as it was less than ten minutes later that he finally saw a small advertising billboard informing travellers of a motel ahead. The sign was poorly maintained, mentioned no amenities, and didn’t feature a star rating, so Will surmised it was probably a pretty low quality place; exactly what they needed. Somewhere quiet where they’d be left to their own devices. 

He lowered his window and craned his head out a little, looking at the stretch of mostly empty farmland on one side that would eventually lead back up to the highway, and the sparsely-forested area on the other; neither looked especially promising in regards to hiding the car. There were no other cars in sight on the road however, nor people out jogging or walking dogs, so Will felt secure enough to carefully take the car off the road and over the grassy area leading to the trees.

Slowly, Will maneuvered the car through a thin patch of the trees and up to a cluster of hedges, discovering as he went a little further that the car could at least be hidden completely from the view of the road, even though it could still be found relatively easily by someone on foot. He brought the car to a halt, and switched off the ignition, killing the engine and the music simultaneously, which stirred Hannibal to consciousness.

He looked dazed, and confusion crossed over his face as he saw the foliage around them through his window.

“Will?” he murmured, his tone questioning.

“There’s a motel a little way ahead,” Will explained. “I’m going to go and get us a room, then I’ll come back for you. The car isn’t hidden well here but there’s nothing we can do about it just now. Even if we only get one night in the motel and then have to move on, at least we’ll have gotten some rest, which is better than none.” There was a faint waver in his voice as he added, “You look really pale, Hannibal.”

“I’ll feel better once I’m able to lie down properly,” Hannibal mumbled, rubbing his eyes with the back of one hand.

Will reached into the back seat for the overnight bag, wincing at the ache in his shoulder. He opened it and located the envelope Hannibal had told him to take from the house. He unsealed it and gave it a small shake to widen the top, then peered inside. He pulled out one of several folded wads of hundred dollar bills; his eyes widened as he realised he was holding approximately three grand in one little bundle. He stuffed it into his pants pocket.

He rooted around in the envelope and drew out one of five credit cards, in the name ‘Christopher Castle’. He didn’t think there was much chance the motel would insist on a card payment, but he pocketed it anyway. Out of curiosity, he took out the three passports that were also in the envelope for a closer look. Two of them featured Hannibal’s picture, looking only slightly different in each, but with two totally different names.

Will’s lips parted in silent surprise when he opened the third and saw that it bore his own picture. He recognised it as one that had been taken around six years ago; it had appeared in a student newsletter from the Bureau academy introducing students to the faculty. He didn’t look vastly different in the picture from his current appearance; hair a little shorter, facial hair a little thinner. The name on the passport was ‘Graham Castor’. The listed age made him two years younger. 

He turned to Hannibal, and held up the passport. The other man didn’t react, he only watched Will with his tired eyes.

“When did you have this made?” Will asked.

“Three weeks before our last supper, at my old apartment,” Hannibal replied. “When we had planned… when I had planned us to leave together.”

Will nodded slowly, having figured as much. He looked back down at it, and closed it carefully, placing it back inside the envelope. He tucked the envelope back into the case, closed it, and cast it once more into the back seat. He sat in silence for a moment, eyes fixed on the car dash.

“How are you feeling?” he asked finally, without looking up.

“I’m in a lot of pain, understandably I’m sure,” Hannibal began, clearing his scratchy throat with a feeble cough, “but in spite of that… I’m quite content.”

“Content?” Will repeated incredulously, “Should I be checking you for a head injury as well?”

Hannibal gave a weak chuckle, but didn’t reply. His eyes were closed again.

“Well, despite a… a rough night, we’re still alive. I guess that’s something to be content with,” Will muttered.

“It’s a great deal more complex than that, Will.”

Will turned to stare at Hannibal’s closed eyes, a strange feeling gently pulsing in his stomach, finding that he was willing the brown eyes to open, but they stayed shut. After several moments, Hannibal had made no attempt to elaborate on his statement, so Will reluctantly dropped his gaze and tried to gather his faculties. He really didn’t want to have to deal with a motel check-in, or the walk there and back, nor did he feel comfortable leaving Hannibal in such a vulnerable position.

He sighed, and opened the car door. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said in Hannibal’s direction. He added quietly, “Remember you have the knife, if something happens.”

Will jumped out of the car then and shut the door, making his way nearer to the road so he could follow it to the motel. He touched the knife in his own pocket for reassurance, though it did little to make him feel less exposed now that he was outside on foot. 

He didn’t look back at the car, but Hannibal watched him go.

*******************

It took almost fifteen minutes of walking before the motel came into Will’s line of sight, though it had felt longer to him. His joints were killing him, his shoulder was unbelievably stiff and aching, and the wound on his face was smarting so much he could feel the pain seeping into his head, worsening the headache that had plagued him since the clifftop. He was so very tired, it felt like a huge struggle to force his feet onward.

The area was extremely quiet; he hadn’t seen another person on foot, and had heard very few vehicles go by. He was grateful for the lack of people, although the silence was giving him way too much freedom to think as he neared the motel. His mind turned around what Hannibal had said.

How could he possibly be content? He was in a great deal of pain from being shot and then thrown around like a ragdoll, concussed and bruised from the cold ocean and the bluff, and on the run with the man who had technically caused it all, instead of in the hospital where he ought to be. Yes, he was alive after all of that, but he’d claimed his contentment was ‘more complex’ than simply not being dead. Will couldn’t begin to imagine what the doctor might have meant, which left him feeling frustrated as well as confused.

As he approached the motel, Will smoothed back his hair and tried to straighten himself up as best he could, though he was sure he must look as terrible as he felt. At least the place looked as lousy as he’d suspected it would; it was badly in need of painting, many of the windows had partially rusted bars over them, and the car park was just a small stretch of ground where the grass was dead. There was only one vehicle sitting there, a battered-looking blue Toyota. The yellow sign above the main office door was so faded it was barely legible, and there was a painfully thin man lounging against the wall nearby with a huffing-bag in his trembling hand.

Will ignored him and made his way into the office, trying to appear confident. He scanned the room quickly; no TV, just a radio, which was good, as it was likely the manager hadn’t seen him on the news. The manager was an extremely overweight man of indeterminable age, with his face thoroughly buried in a magazine which looked to be about custom sports cars. The neglected tip jar on the counter was dusty and empty save for a couple of quarters; Will had to figure there wasn’t a lot of human traffic passing through. Excellent.

“Hey, you got a room free?” he asked, deliberately slumming his speech as he stepped up to the counter.

“Sure is, if you got cash,” came the gruff reply. The man didn’t look up from his magazine. “Double rooms only. No AC. How long you want it for? It’s twenty bucks for an hour, ninety if you’re staying ‘til tomorrow. Check out is at eleven.”

“I’ll be here for the night,” Will said, pulling out the wad of bills, taking care to keep it lower than the counter, close to his stomach and out of sight. The last thing he and Hannibal needed was someone seeing that he had a lot of money on him, and hassling them. He drew out a single bill, and held it out to the manager.

After practically snatching it from Will’s hand and sticking it under the false note light-checker beneath the counter, the man grunted in approval.

“I don’t got any change right now, sorry,” he said, pocketing the bill and pausing to see if Will would challenge him over the ten dollars.

“That so?” Will replied with a sigh, feigning annoyance. “Fine, I guess. What’s my room number?”

The manager took a key from the hooked board on the wall to his right, glanced at it, and handed it to Will.

“Room eight, far right, beside the ice box,” he said brightly, clearly pleased at wrangling a ten dollar tip. 

As Will took the key, the manager finally gave him a proper look from over the top of his magazine, and immediately frowned.

“You don’t got a bag or anything? You look real rough, friend, like you’ve taken a bad beating. You get robbed or somethin’?” he asked, eyes widening.

“Yeah, I got jumped by a pair of doped-up assholes, a few hours ago. Took my stuff, was just luck they didn’t check my pockets or I’d be sleepin’ under a tree tonight,” Will replied, rolling his eyes. “I’m good though, looks worse than it feels.”

The manager craned his neck to look outside behind Will. “You arrived on foot? Hope them bastards didn’t get your wheels, too!”

“Nah, my old hunk of junk died miles back, should’ve given up on it long ago,” Will replied casually, beginning to feel frustrated with the nosy manager and his frightful body odour that hung thickly in the air. “Hitched it here.”

“You ever driven a Ferrari?” The manager asked suddenly, but continued to speak without giving Will a moment to answer, waggling his magazine at him. “I’d give my left nut for one of ‘em, I tell ya. Real chick magnet they are, no matter who’s drivin’, girls see that shiny finish and suddenly they don’t care how many extra pounds you’re carryin’!” He grinned widely and winked at Will, as though he’d just imparted a meaningful secret.

Will smiled politely and turned to leave, “Well, I’m gonna go catch some rest, them assholes kinda took it out of me.” 

“‘Til tomorrow morning, then,” the manager nodded, turning his full attention back to his magazine.

Will took a deep breath of the fresh air once outside, and stifled a yawn. He made his way in the direction of the room, avoiding eye-contact with the man who was still leaning against the wall, but in his stupor had dropped his paper bag. Will side-stepped the ice box, which was more or less empty, and located door number eight. He unlocked it and went inside.

The air was stale, most likely from a combination of the lack of AC and the fact that the windows appeared to be permanently sealed from the inside. The net curtain over the window was grubby, and the cheap plastic alarm clock sitting on the bedside table was stained yellow, presumably from many previous occupants smoking. Will pulled back the cover from the double bed, and was relieved that the sheets at least seemed to be clean. 

It didn’t surprise him that there were only double rooms available; if the manager was renting them out an hour at a time, chances were high that the people who frequented the motel tended to come to spend time with prostitutes, or take drugs, maybe both. The place was a dive, which suited Will just fine; suspicious people came and went often in places like this, and nobody would be keen to call the police unless there was a serious emergency.

Staring down at the bed, he realised he and Hannibal were going to have to share. He wouldn’t have wanted to accept a twin room even if there had been one available – if the manager thought he was alone, all the better – but sharing brought some concerns. What if one of them tossed and turned during the night, and injured the other? He was often a restless sleeper, and could easily flail in his sleep and accidentally strike the site of Hannibal’s bullet wound. 

There was also the fact that he had pulled the other man into the ocean and almost killed him, and they were going to need to address that. Being forced to share such close proximity… it could be extremely awkward. He’d been in close quarters with Hannibal before, cradled in his very arms even, but the intimacy of a shared bed was a little different. Will wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about it, but decided he (and probably Hannibal too) was so desperate to get some sleep, the bed would feel like the most inviting place on earth.

After quickly ducking into the bathroom to check it out – there was no shower curtain to keep the water spray in, resulting in a smattering of damp mold on the linoleum just in front of the bath, but otherwise it was surprisingly not too bad, there was even a clean towel – Will splashed some cold water on his face to try and perk himself up a bit for the walk back to the car.

He deliberately kept his eyes off the bed as he went back to the room door, partly because he didn’t want to risk giving in to desperation and just crashing out on it, and partly because he didn’t want his thoughts to go down the route of what the atmosphere might be like while he and Hannibal lay there. Peering outside and seeing no one but the huffing-bag man, who looked as though he’d passed out while standing, Will quickly locked the door and headed out, silently willing himself to have the strength to make the trip back from the car while supporting Hannibal. 

He couldn’t wait to take some painkillers, too. Hannibal probably shouldn’t take any while he was concussed, but Will wouldn’t deny them to him if he wanted them. He was bound to need them by the time they got back to the motel. Will marvelled to himself once again that they were both alive. He hadn’t foreseen things going this way, not at all.

They could so easily still have both been beneath the water’s surface now, unmoving save for the motion of the waves, clammy-skinned, food for whatever fish happened upon them. They could have bled out in front of the house, in between the benches, alongside the corpse of Francis Dolarhyde. The bullet that had hit Hannibal could have ruptured something, or even killed him outright, leaving Will to tackle the Dragon alone. How might that have played out? They had technically been unbelievably lucky, despite everything that was against them. Where had their fortune come from, what had they done to merit such luck? Hannibal might like to imagine it was divine intervention. And who was to say he’d be wrong? 

Will rubbed his aching eyes with his forefinger and thumb, mentally berating himself for entertaining such convoluted thoughts in his sleep-deprived brain. He moved onwards, beginning to feel as though his shoes were lined with solid lead as he forced himself to walk. He glanced around often, making sure nobody was watching him, and was satisfied that no one had noticed him leave the motel grounds.

He hoped to God that he would remain blessedly unnoticed when he returned with Hannibal in tow.

****************************

Once he’d made it back to where he’d stowed the police car, Will was relieved to see it was just where he’d left it, and he could see Hannibal inside, still seemingly asleep. There were no people around, and more importantly, no police, neither cars nor helicopters. Their curious serendipity was holding.

Will opened the driver door and got in, pulling the bag from the back seat into his lap, trying to work out if the handles could be adjusted to function as a backpack. Hannibal opened his eyes, blinking hard for a moment, before looking over at Will.

“You’re back,” he murmured wearily, stifling a yawn, his brow furrowing at the pain in his gut as he shifted slightly. “How was the motel?”

“It’s a dump, but it suits our purpose; people aren’t inclined call the cops to a place like this,” Will replied wryly. “I got us a room. I’m hoping we can get you inside without anyone seeing. The place was pretty dead, I imagine business probably doesn’t pick up until late.”

Will tutted to himself in annoyance as he grudgingly accepted that the bag handles were not adaptable, and he was going to have to hold the bag normally in one hand. Supporting Hannibal was going to be tricky. He turned to face the other man, who was watching him without focus, as though his mind was elsewhere.

“The motel is about fifteen minutes away, do you think you can make it? I have to carry this, but I’ll help you as best I can,” Will said.

Hannibal blinked hard and looked straight at Will, now seeing him properly. Pain was written deeply in the lines of his face, but he set his jaw resolutely and gave a single nod, “I will make it.”

Will felt a small boost in confidence at the determination in Hannibal’s voice. He got out of the car and went to open the passenger door for him; Hannibal slowly turned sideways to move his legs out of the car, and took a deep breath, readying himself to stand. He looked up at Will, who nodded encouragement. 

With an unrestrained grunt, Hannibal pushed himself up off the seat, and Will quickly put his right arm across Hannibal’s back and under the other man’s own right arm, his body providing support and helping Hannibal draw himself to standing. The sudden strain made Will’s muscles tense up miserably, and the weight of the bag in his other hand in conjunction with Hannibal’s weight made his shoulder feel like an array of ice-cold needles had been jammed into it. He gritted his teeth and exhaled sharply.

Hannibal looked at him as he became fully upright, his lips parting slightly as though he was going to speak, but stopped himself. His eyes looked questioningly at Will instead, his concern apparent. It was clear to Will that Hannibal knew that assisting him while also dealing with the bag was greatly hurting him, and he obviously felt regretful for the burden, but Hannibal couldn’t do this without Will, so really, there was very little point in saying anything about it. Will simply nodded again, his mouth set staunchly in a firm line.

Very slowly, and with no small measure of pain, they began to walk.

****************************

Due to Hannibal’s sluggish pace, and the increased strain on Will’s own injuries, it took them closer to a half hour until they reached the motel together. Will found himself grinding his teeth in response to the stress he was feeling as he kept a watchful eye out for human traffic, resulting in the dulled throbbing of his headache making a sudden and unwelcome resurgence.

There were no new cars in the poor excuse for a parking lot, and nobody in sight; even the junkie and his paper bag had disappeared, presumably into one of the rooms to sleep off the effect of the fumes. Will froze for a moment as he thought he heard one of the room doors unlocking, but whomever had done so seemed to change their mind, as the lock clicked again, and no one appeared.

Will set down the bag so he could unlock their room, before picking it back up and pushing the door open with his foot. He only needed to take a couple of steps before they were close enough to the bottom of the bed for him to let Hannibal sit, and then he dropped the bag to the floor, turning quickly to lock the door behind them.

He let out a long sigh, and turned to Hannibal, who was trying not to slump forward, for the pressure it put on his wound. 

“Give me a sec and I’ll help you get comfortable,” he mumbled, rubbing his face with his hands wearily.

He didn’t wait for a reply, instead heading straight into the bathroom. He relieved himself, washed his hands, and then delicately removed his shirt, his shoulder stiffly aching with each movement. He looked at his wound in the mirror, trying to assess if it looked any worse for the strain of aiding Hannibal along; the bruising around it might have been a little darker, he wasn’t sure, but the flimsy butterfly stitches had miraculously managed to stay in place. 

Will left the bathroom and tossed his shirt onto the room’s only chair, by the window. He grabbed the overnight bag and lifted it onto the bed, opening it up and digging out some of the loose medical supplies. He tried to look closely at the label on the single bottle of pills which didn’t appear to be painkillers, but his tiredness was making his eyes swim, and he gave up.

“What are these?” he asked instead, holding the bottle up for Hannibal to see.

“Amoxicillin. Broad spectrum antibiotics. It might be wise for us both to take one of those,” Hannibal replied, his accent seeming somehow thicker through his low, weary tone. “In my current state… my body won’t fend off infection… as efficiently as it would normally. Those pills will help.” His breath hitched twice as he spoke, and he coughed.

“And the painkillers?” Will prompted, reaching for the bottle of water he’d packed from the cliff house’s kitchen.

Hannibal shook his head, “it wouldn’t be wise while I’m concussed, as much as I’d welcome them. I’ll take some in a day or two. You can take two now… then again in six hours.”

Will tipped one of the antibiotic pills into his palm, then unscrewed the water bottle. He held the pill up to Hannibal’s lips, letting him mouth it from between his fingers, then did the same with the water bottle, holding it up for him so he could swallow the pill with a mouthful. 

Will took one himself and two of the painkillers, before closing the water bottle and setting it down on the TV-less TV table at the foot of the bed. He turned back to Hannibal, and took stock of his condition; he looked dreadful. Somehow older. Since he was usually the picture of health, it was jarring to Will to see him appear to find even breathing a chore. How much of the damage was done by the bullet and the fight, and how much by the climb from ocean, was impossible to tell.

“Do you need the restroom before I take care of your bandage?” Will asked him, glancing around the room for something Hannibal could use to urinate in, and when he saw nothing useful he braced himself for possibly having to bear his weight again so the heavier man could get to the bathroom.

He was hugely relieved when Hannibal sleepily shook his head no.

Kneeling down in front of him with a pained grunt, Will undid the buttons on Hannibal’s shirt, slipping it down off his shoulders and throwing it towards his own on the chair. He didn’t speak, and neither did Hannibal, simply for the fact of them both being too exhausted to drum up anything resembling small talk, and the time for serious conversation was definitely not now. 

Trying to work lightly, Will undid the bandage around the other man’s waist, and checked the gauze. It had remained moist, as Will was relieved to see when he pulled it free from the wound, having been concerned about it drying and tugging the skin painfully when removed. There had also been surprisingly little further bleeding. He went through the same cleaning procedure as he had at the house, as Hannibal watched him patiently with tired eyes, before binding a fresh bandage around the older man.

Will’s head was killing him, and he felt as though he could hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears; he knew he had never been so utterly shattered in his life, and prayed that once he actually laid down to sleep, he would be able to without any trouble. He would even welcome one of his awful nightmares, if it meant he’d be asleep. The daylight glared through the window, but although a well-lit room would normally aggravate him while trying to sleep, he knew there was very little chance it would interfere in his drifting off this time.

He had to force himself hard to concentrate while Hannibal showed him how to attach a tube to one of the bags of saline, and then insert an IV needle into the back of his pale hand. He had informed Will that because he was likely to pass out for a good while, it was important he remain hydrated; Will had rebuffed the suggestion that he do the same. 

They had very few of the IV bags, and he felt it’d be wasteful to use one on himself when he could get up far easier than Hannibal and hydrate himself with water, especially since he was going to set the alarm clock on the nightstand for every four hours. The prospect of Hannibal developing an infection was an uneasy one, and Will planned to tend to the care of the gunshot wound regularly. 

After the IV line was secured, Will helped Hannibal sidle up to the top of the bed, and he managed to affix the bag to the wall above them on one of several randomly jutting picture hooks. He let Hannibal use his good shoulder to brace against so the doctor could lie down slowly, until he was on his back with a sigh. Will noted that the partially elastic waistband of the slacks was extremely close to the padding of the wound, and probably irritating the tender skin.

“You want those off too?” he asked, gesturing with one hand.

“Please,” Hannibal concurred, closing his eyes against the sting of a random pain which skated across his stomach.

Will hooked his fingers into the top of the trousers and gave them an ungainly tug. It took a few moments of embarrassed and fruitless pulling before he remembered they had a button, which he quickly undid. He was able to drag them down more easily then, leaning over Hannibal a little way to be able to pull the material without having to make him move. He kept his eyes awkwardly averted. Sliding them down gently over Hannibal’s cut knee and past his feet, Will then dumped them alongside their other clothing, and pulled the bed cover up over Hannibal’s naked frame.

“Thank you, Will,” Hannibal mumbled.

After setting the timer on the flimsy old alarm clock, though unconvinced it would actually function as intended, Will made his way around the other side of the double bed and sat down. The mattress was comfortable beneath him, for being an undoubtedly cheap model. He rubbed his hands through his messy hair, lowering his head as he did so, and exhaled a long yawn.

He looked over his shoulder in Hannibal’s direction; the older man’s eyes were still closed, lips parted a little, his broad chest rising and falling slowly. He seemed to have fallen asleep almost immediately. Will then brought his gaze to his own lap, considered removing his slacks, but ultimately opted to leave them on. The idea of both of them being completely nude in their motel-bed communion gave Will a grating feeling at the back of his mind that he couldn’t cognize, and he was too run-down to try.

Lying down properly and pulling the cover up over himself, Will turned his head very slightly as though he might glance at Hannibal once more, but with his head finally against a comfortable pillow and his body reclining into the soft bed, his heavy exhaustion snapped him from consciousness within seconds. 

Having given Will a moment of privacy to make himself comfortable, Hannibal turned his own head towards the passed-out younger man beside him, and gazed quietly upon his profile for the few seconds he had before unconscious took hold of him as well.


	3. Tending

The motel room was almost entirely dark, save for the faintest light coming through the window from a dull lamp on the wall outside, and the red glare of the alarm clock, which proclaimed the time as a minute past three a.m. Will had just quietly climbed back into bed after changing Hannibal’s bandage for the third time, and replacing the IV bag. Hannibal hadn’t stirred when Will had momentarily turned on the light and set about his task, the older man appearing to be utterly lost in deep sleep. 

Will had been grateful for his dormancy, since while re-packing the bullet wound it had begun to lightly bleed, forcing Will to apply firm pressure for a few minutes. He had been startled by the blood, but he was also pleased to note once it had stopped that the wound itself still looked quite healthy. He could only imagine what kind of germs it might have been exposed to in the water, and during the climb up the bluff which had left them both filthy, but the wound was showing no sign of infection, not yet at least. Hannibal didn’t feel fevered, either.

After seeing to Hannibal, Will had gone into the bathroom to wash his own shoulder and cheek, which hadn’t been a pleasant experience; while rinsing inside his mouth with the saline, he’d felt a sharp sting in his gum, and when he’d used a fingertip to tentatively feel the area, he discovered that Dolarhyde’s knife must have knocked into one of his teeth, causing it to come loose. It had felt like it might come out of its fleshy moorings quite easily, so he’d given it a good tug, only to realise it had still been fairly well-rooted. He had managed to pull it out – inspection of it showed that it was cracked from being struck with the tip of the knife – but it had hurt something fierce, especially after the mouthful of cold water he’d drunk to wash down another two painkillers. The hole in his gum now throbbed.

In spite of the misery of their agonies, Will felt hopeful that with regular cleaning and taking the antibiotics, infection wouldn’t become a problem for either of them. Time would tell. They would however need to stock up on supplies soon; namely gauze and saline. The gauze would be easy, any standard first aid kit would have it; the saline might be trickier, he didn’t know, but he figured he could create a saltwater solution from scratch that might be an acceptable substitute, if necessary. Hannibal would be able to advise him about that.

In between getting up to tend to their injuries, Will had slept relatively soundly. He was surprised not to have been visited by any nightmares in the hours he’d been unconscious, but was glad of it; he’d been worried that he might experience an awful dream and awaken with a jolt as he so often had in the past, knowing how much it would hurt his shoulder to jerk awake in that way. However, any dreams he’d had, of which he could remember none, had been mercifully mild.

Will shifted his weight slightly and had to fight the urge not to roll over onto his right side, which he naturally favoured. He knew how restless a sleeper he typically was, and alongside the worry about accidentally jarring his shoulder, was the apprehension that he might roll over on that side in his sleep and wake up in even more pain than he currently was.

He’d pushed the bed cover down to his stomach; the small room was oppressively stuffy and warm, and there was a light smattering of sweat on his skin. The room was going to smell even more stale and unpleasant by morning than it already did. All these small worries and annoyances were irritating him, but after managing over fifteen hours of sorely-needed rest, he no longer felt on the edge of panic; while the extended rest had done nothing for his various aches and pains, his mind certainly felt a lot calmer. 

Although he couldn’t really make anything out in the low light with his weary eyes, Will turned his head to face Hannibal, or where he knew Hannibal’s head would be. He listened closely to the other man’s breathing; the uncomfortable-sounding rattle that he’d heard earlier was still present, though perhaps not quite as prominent. It was probably to be expected after inhaling some water, he decided, and despite it, Hannibal’s breathing actually sounded fairly even and normal.

Will fleetingly wondered if Hannibal was dreaming. Maybe he was surrounded by nightmares of black water, of watching himself falling in a continual, horrifying loop, his usual impassive countenance somehow extending through the veil of sleep. Or perhaps his mind was as undisturbed and passive as Will’s, his body simply too worn out to go through the process of weaving a dream tapestry for him.

After a few minutes of listening to the sound of the other man’s breath softly passing between his lips, Will slipped easily back into benign sleep.

*************************

It was almost seven when Will awoke again. While he hadn’t rolled onto his injured shoulder in his sleep, he had at some point moved his right arm up to rest above his head, and so there was a fresh, deep ache in the muscle of his shoulder and bicep. He groaned and rubbed both eyes free of sleep, yawning silently as he did so, before opening them slowly. The light coming through the dirty window was muted, making it appear as though it was a few hours earlier than in reality.

He stared at the ceiling for a few moments, mustering the will to move. He eventually turned towards Hannibal, and started slightly when he saw that the older man was already awake and watching him.

“Good morning,” Hannibal said, his voice slightly hoarse.

“Uh, morning,” Will repeated stiffly, trying to quickly regroup from his surprise. “Have you been awake long?”

“Only a few minutes,” Hannibal replied, as his sleep-softened eyes drifted over Will’s bruised face and down to his shoulder, then back up. “How is your pain?”

“Pretty dire. I had to pull a broken tooth during the night, which was no picnic.” Will winced at the memory, and dipped the tip of his tongue into the hole in his gum to gauge the sting. Unpleasant, but no worse. “My shoulder hurts more than my face, but both are really bad.”

He glanced down towards Hannibal’s middle since the rumpled bedclothes were down at his waist, seeing that no blood had seeped through the last bandage change. Will’s gaze lingered a moment, before he remembered that Hannibal was naked beneath the cover, and immediately felt awkward for staring. He cleared his throat and looked back up at the other man’s tired but attentive face.

“How about you, how badly are you hurting?” he asked.

Hannibal lifted his right hand and lightly touched the bandage over his abdominal wound, then applying a little pressure with his palm, his mouth twitching as he did so.

“It’s quite atrocious,” he admitted, “but I can bear it. You changed the bandage during the night? I have no memory of that.”

“I changed it three times,” Will nodded, “I also replaced the empty IV bag. You were dead to the world, so I’m not surprised you don’t remember. There was a little bleeding, it didn’t last long, I stopped it.”

“Thank you, Will,” Hannibal replied sincerely. “You were as desperately in need of sleep as I was; I hope tending to me so much didn’t interfere with you getting a properly restful sleep.”

Will shrugged with his good shoulder, “I got a lot of sleep in between. The last thing we need to be dealing with is your wound getting infected. God knows this place is hardly the Hilton, the bacteria in the bathroom alone probably has its own civilisation.” 

Hannibal chuckled soundlessly, and winced slightly at the ache it brought.

“At least the sheets looked clean,” Will continued. “They were about the only thing in the whole damn place that did, surprisingly.”

Hannibal’s gaze then dropped to the bed, to the relatively small amount of space between them; Will followed his line of sight, and he quickly felt a flush of embarrassment heat up his ears and face as Hannibal’s eyes suddenly met his again.

“This place only, uh, only had double rooms,” he said by way of explanation, even though Hannibal’s gaze hadn’t been questioning. “I meant to mention it yesterday. I didn’t think separate rooms was a viable option, since I would need to come to yours repeatedly anyway to check on your wounds. I didn’t want to risk being seen outside more than is necessary, either. I would have slept in the chair, but I doubt that would have done much for my pain...”

_Stop rambling._

The faintest crinkles at the corners of his eyes were all that betrayed Hannibal’s amusement at Will’s chagrin.

“It’s alright, Will,” he said. “Your reasoning was sound, flitting back and forth between two rooms wouldn’t have been practical.” With a slight tilt of his head, he added in a softer tone, “A shared bed has no more significance than you choose to give it.”

“Umm… right,” Will nodded, the faintest frown gracing his forehead for a few seconds, before he turned away and quickly got out of the bed.

He picked up the half-empty bottle of water from the table, and the two bottles of pills from the top of the bag. He took an antibiotic and another two painkillers with a gulp of the water, and fished out another antibiotic for Hannibal.

“Do you want any painkillers yet?” he asked.

“I hadn’t planned on it yet, but if we are to leave this place today I think I’ll need their help,” Hannibal replied grimly.

Will dropped a couple of the painkillers into his palm with the other pill, and took them to Hannibal, offering him the bottle of water. He sat up and took the pills from Will’s extended hand, swallowing them down dry before chasing them with a sip of water. He lay back down as a wave of mild dizziness passed over him, and nodded weakly to Will in thanks.

“We have enough cash that it’ll be easy enough to acquire another car without having to resort to stealing one,” Will said after a moment, as he returned to the bag at the foot of the bed and began to dig inside for fresh clothes for them both. “Something second hand, inconspicuous. We’re going to need a Hell of a lot more rest and time to heal, so we can’t be on the road all the time. If both our pictures are out there, checking in to multiple places is going to get difficult.”

He lifted two shirts and two pairs of pants from the bag, almost identical to what they’d worn the day before. He laid one set of the clothes on the end of the bed, and then hung the other on the towel rail in the bathroom, before turning on the shower. The water pressure was better than he’d expected. 

Making his way back into the bedroom, he glanced at Hannibal, who was still sitting with his eyes shut as he waited out the dizzy spell.

“Shall I help you to the bathroom?” he asked. “I wouldn’t make you get up, but we don’t seem to have anything in here you could use instead…”

Hannibal opened his eyes and nodded, “That’s alright. I’ll need to get up when we leave, regardless. However, it will pose a problem for me if the plan is to walk aimlessly until we happen upon a car showroom.”

Will moved to Hannibal’s side and carefully helped him out of the bed, wrapping his good arm across his back. The bigger man leaned against Will’s side, taking a sharp breath when he was standing fully and made to take a step.

“Go slowly,” Will cautioned. He encouraged him to take a small step, then another, briefly thinking of how much pain he must have been in the day before, when they’d had to move more quickly from the abandoned police car to reach the motel, and that was without the benefit of a lengthy sleep.

Once in the bathroom, Will flipped up the toilet seat so Hannibal wouldn’t have to bend down, then adjusted his hold on him so he could brace against him with a free arm. He looked away courteously as Hannibal relieved himself, then leaned over to flush for him. Will shut the lid and helped Hannibal to sit on the closed seat. He grunted at the sudden chill of it.

“You’re not in any state to stand in the shower, but we’ll have to keep you and your wounds clean,” Will said, more to himself than to Hannibal.

He returned to the overnight bag in the bedroom, and located the washcloth he’d packed. He also grabbed more gauze and pads, a fresh bandage, and the bottle of saline, which was rapidly running out, he noted with concern. He brought the items to the bathroom, and balanced the medical things on top of his clothes on the towel rack, not trusting the cleanliness of any of the bathroom’s surfaces. 

Holding the washcloth under the running water of the shower until it was saturated, then wringing out the excess water, Will turned to Hannibal, feeling once again a little awkward at the fact of the other man’s nakedness, irked that the house on the cliff had contained so few clothes and no underwear.

Will was about to ask him if he wanted to freshen up by himself, but Hannibal’s hands were occupied with holding on to the rim of the sink to support the unsteadiness plaguing him, and clasping over the area of his wound, which was obviously hurting him in his upright position. He was so pale, even more noticeably now that Will could see all of his skin under the bright bathroom light, and not just his face. His closed eyes were wrinkled at the sides from how firmly he held them shut in his discomfort.

Kneeling down beside him, Will wordlessly raised the damp washcloth to Hannibal’s face, pressing it against his forehead gently. Hannibal’s eyes flickered open and met Will’s, barely a half foot between them. Will held still for a moment, waiting to see if Hannibal would tell him to stop. Hannibal’s lips pursed into a tense but appreciative almost-smile, and he simply closed his eyes again, and leaned ever so slightly into Will’s ministrations.

Will continued, wiping down Hannibal’s skin with the soft cloth, occasionally dipping it back under the shower stream. He moved to kneel at Hannibal’s front and ran the cloth over the greying-haired expanse of Hannibal’s broad chest, frowning at a vivid purple bruise he could see amidst the hair. There were many such bruises and scrapes; Will thought to himself that it wouldn’t surprise him if there were a few bone fractures to accompany a couple of the more serious bruises. 

After he had finished with the washcloth, he undid Hannibal’s bandage and removed all the padding and gauze. He looked closely at the bruised, swollen flesh; the pads had been bloody, but there was no pus that he could see, nor any strong-smelling fluid of any kind. The torn meat of the hole looked raw and incredibly painful, but he’d been correct during the night when he thought that it didn’t look an unhealthy colour. Leaning around to check the back, he was satisfied that the entry wound appeared in relatively decent shape too; no pus, no bad smell. Will delicately dabbed at the areas around the wounds with the cloth. 

He fetched the towel from their bag, and gingerly patted Hannibal’s skin dry with it. He used some saline to wash the wounds directly, including the one on his knee, and a few others that they hadn’t had time to deal with at the house. After re-covering the bullet holes with moistened pads, Will wrapped a new bandage around Hannibal’s waist, and lightly laid a hand on his shoulder. 

“Are you alright to get back up?” 

“Mmhmm,” Hannibal mumbled, lifting an arm to let Will take hold of him again, and gritting his teeth as Will hoisted him to standing. They made their way back to the bed, where Hannibal dazedly went to sit immediately, but Will stopped him just long enough to help him into the clean pair of slacks he’d laid out. Once that was done, Will helped lower Hannibal to the bed to sit, and tugged the fresh shirt on him too.

“I’m going to take a quick shower, then I’ll go see the motel manager, ask if he knows the closest place where we can get a car,” Will told him, glancing at the clock on the table. It was just after eight. “Check out isn’t for three hours yet, so you can stay here while I’m gone, but hopefully I won’t be long.” He sighed and lowered his head for a moment, rubbing his eyes, and added, “I have no clue what we’re going to do if I can’t get us another vehicle right away. We can’t go back to the police car, it’s too risky.”

“It’s unlikely that it has been found; considering the distance between it and this place, if anyone had reported it, I imagine the police would have been here already,” Hannibal replied, “and even if they only showed my photograph and not yours, they would most likely still want to check in on anyone who arrived yesterday.”

“If we can get a car, that’ll be one obstacle cleared, and we’ll worry about where to drive it after we get out of here,” Will said, rising to his feet. He offered a hand out to Hannibal to assist him in shifting further up the bed so he could lie down, coughing a few times as he moved.

Will left him there to rest, and returned to the still-running shower. The water was only lukewarm now, but he didn’t mind; he felt grimy and sweaty, and he knew that even a cold shower would have been bliss at that moment. He removed his trousers, and peeled off his butterfly stitches with the help of the mirror. He stepped into the bath, shivering a little, before standing under the stream. He grunted in quiet annoyance as he realised he didn’t have any soap, nor had he thought to bring a bar from the bathroom of the house, but there was a small bottle of body wash on the edge of the tub that some previous occupant had deserted.

He checked the condition of the bottle and was pleased to see it had been left there fairly recently, and very little of it had been used; it appeared to be a women’s variety, but he didn’t care. He poured some into the palm of his hand and used it to wash his hair, greatly enjoying the refreshing sensation of building the fragrant lather, before rinsing the foam from his curls. He ran his lathered hands over his body, taking care not to rub any of the product over his shoulder wound, and he avoided his face with it also. Once all the soapy froth had disappeared down the drain, he gently ran a hand over his shoulder and cheek, washing them with just the water, grimacing at the ache in both.

After he’d turned off the shower and stepped out onto the cold linoleum – narrowly avoiding standing on the long patch of mildew – Will picked up the towel he had dab-dried Hannibal with, since it was only slightly damp, favouring it over the motel’s own. He dried his face first, carefully around his cheek wound, subconsciously breathing in the scent from the towel as he did so, before towelling his hair dry. He winced a few times as he dried the rest of himself, his shoulder throbbing with each movement.

He reached out to the towel rack for his clothes, pulling on the slacks and shirt, fastening the bottoms but leaving the shirt open. He picked up the saline bottle and a clean cotton pad, moistened it, and gave his face and shoulder a more meticulous clean. He squirted a little saline in his mouth to use as mouthwash again, then spat it into the sink; there was still some blood in his spittle. He poked the tip of his tongue against the cut inside his cheek, and then into the hole in his gum once more; they tasted only of blood, nothing strange or sour that might make him think they were becoming infected. 

Will took the unused medical supplies back into the bedroom and placed them in the bag, before fishing out a sheet of the butterfly strips. He glanced at Hannibal for a moment; he had fallen asleep, one hand on his chest. Will moved a little more quietly back to the bathroom, and applied fresh strips to his face; with their help, it looked like it would knit together pretty well. He found himself not for the first time feeling thankful that Dolarhyde had stabbed him with a thin blade, and not whatever had been at hand, such as the broken wine bottle. Will shuddered at the thought.

He placed fresh butterfly strips along the gash in his shoulder too, wondering if he might be able to rustle up a needle and thread to stitch it properly, from a sewing kit perhaps, although he did not relish the idea of what would be an incredibly uncomfortable procedure. Although, he was already putting up with a great deal of pain; he supposed a little more wouldn’t be unbearable.

Satisfied, Will buttoned up his shirt, and fetched his shoes from near the room door. He laced them up, then dug in the pocket of yesterday’s slacks for the knife, credit card and cash. He pocketed them, and went to unlock the door; he looked back at the unconscious Hannibal, an unpleasant flicker of anxiety skittering through his chest at having to leave him in such a vulnerable position. He knew there was nothing he could do about it for now, but the worry remained.

He stepped outside, glancing around nervously in search of people as he locked the door behind him; there was only a bedraggled woman with dry, over-bleached hair, curled up and sleeping on the bench against the wall a few doors down. She was barefoot and clutching her high heels under her chin. Will could vaguely recall hearing a female voice yelling at someone during the night to stay away from her shoes, though he had been far too sleep-addled to register what had been going on; he supposed some lowlife had seen her sleeping and had decided her shoes might be worth something. Whatever else had happened while he was asleep, it appeared she had bested the would-be thief.

Will approached the manager’s small office and opened the door; the heavy-set man was sitting in his chair behind the desk, head lolling back and mouth hanging open as he snored softly. Another car magazine was lying open on his stomach, and Will noticed he was wearing the same clothes as the day before; he had most likely slept there. Will figured that probably meant he still hadn’t seen any news, which comforted him; he would have to try and check out a news station himself at the first opportunity, to see what details were being reported and what the police knew.

“Hey, buddy,” Will said loudly, rapping his knuckles on the counter.

The manager awoke with a start, looking around in bewilderment for a second before his focus landed on Will. The man sighed and rubbed his face, then looked down at the digital clock on his desk.

“Help you? Still kinda early for check out,” he groaned.

“Sorry to bother you, I was just wonderin’ if you knew where the nearest place is to pick up another car?” Will asked him, barely daring to hope. “All the shit that needs done to fix my broken down hunk of junk I left, it’ll be cheaper just buyin’ something else second hand.”

The manager yawned, then nodded. “There’s a place about a half an hour’s drive from here, that way,” he replied, gesturing vaguely off to his left. “It’s kinda tucked out of the way, so there’s not much of a footpath, gotta be careful if you’re walking.”

Will felt a surge of defeat; a half hour drive would easily take him over an hour to walk, that was if he even found the place easily enough, and if for some reason there was nothing there for him, it would be another hour to walk back. Then, they’d either be forced back to their police car, which he didn’t consider an option, or have to start walking for who knows how long, and to who knows where. Hannibal couldn’t cope with that, and after a two-hour trek, neither could he.

“Hey, is that your car out there?” he asked suddenly, turning to look for the Toyota sitting in the makeshift parking lot, a blue wing-mirror just visible from the office.

“Yeah, why?” the manager replied, his tone immediately suspicious.

“You think you could drive me? I’m still pretty beat up from yesterday, those fuckers got my knee pretty good, don’t much fancy a long walk,” Will said, and seeing the instant look of displeasure on the man’s face, he reached into his pocket for some cash. “I’ll pay you for your time, and gas, of course. Couple hundred bucks do you?”

“Two hundred dollars just to drive you to the lot?” the man repeated, his pudgy face flushing slightly pink at the prospect of such easy money. His eyes gleamed shiftily, and Will knew exactly what was coming when the man added, “Oh, but I’d have to leave the motel, there’s nobody here to take over for me. Could cause a problem for me, ya know?”

“I hear you,” Will replied dryly. “Would _four_ hundred cover your trouble? That’s all I got left on me, man.”

“That will do nicely, friend,” the man grinned, holding out a hand for the money.

Will handed him two hundred. “No offence, but I don’t know you, so I’ll give you the other half once we’re up there.”

The man grunted in grudging acceptance, and stuffed the money in his shirt pocket. Will didn’t care about the cash, they had more than enough, but his new driver would have probably expected as much from someone else who did care. It was Hell of a lot of money to a lot of people; it had been to Will not long ago. 

Thinking of how much money was sitting in their room in the blue envelope as petty cash alone, Will supposed that Hannibal’s wealth was far more extensive than he would have originally surmised, and it was a good thing too; avoiding the police, fleeing the country and setting up somewhere else was not going to be cheap. The faintest glimmer of a faintly surprised and almost amused smirk touched his mouth at how readily his mind had landed on that idea. He was itching to talk to Hannibal about what such a future might entail, and several other things to boot, yet at the same time, the thought of such conversation filled him with trepidation.

After a moment, he became aware that the manager had come out from behind his desk, keys in hand, and was now standing beside him, waiting, with a look of impatience on his face.

“I said, you ready to go now?” the man repeated what he had apparently already asked.

“Sorry, I just got hit with a headache. Yeah, let’s go,” Will agreed, giving him what he hoped was a friendly, reassuring smile.

The large man smiled back and locked his office door, before lumbering to the car and unlocking it. He got in with a huffed breath of effort, and Will was not surprised that the car immediately hunkered down on its wheels on that side. 

Will climbed in the passenger side, pulled the door shut and clipped his seatbelt into place.

“I guess I should introduce myself since I’m drivin’ you, and takin’ all your money!” the man laughed loudly, as though he had made a terrifically funny joke. “Name’s Archie.”

Thinking back to the name on the credit card in case he had to use it at the car lot, Will smiled amicably, and replied, “Good to know you, Archie. I’m Christopher. Chris to people who are takin’ my money.”

Archie laughed heartily again, and started the car. He flipped on the stereo and pressed play on a CD that was already inside; Will didn’t know what he was expecting the man’s music taste to be, but it certainly wasn’t the bubbly, girl-band pop that piped cheerfully out of the speakers. He also wasn’t expecting Archie to start singing along in what was actually a fairly decent falsetto pitch. 

As they pulled away from the motel, Will glanced towards room number eight, and tried to fight the rising uneasiness he felt by concentrating on Archie’s ridiculously upbeat singing. He declined the invitation to join in with him, and was rewarded with a loud belch and being called a spoil sport. Will bemusedly wondered what sort of meal Hannibal might make of the man, given the chance.

 

********************

 

Despite how grating the music and singing quickly became, Will was still grateful for it, as it kept Archie thoroughly occupied and disinclined to make small talk. Will wasn’t in the mood to chat, and he definitely wasn’t in the mood to have to spontaneously invent answers to any questions the man might ask. If he hadn’t felt it was more or less his only option, he wouldn’t have considered relying on the word of the stale-smelling motel-dweller, leaving Hannibal alone and so vulnerable. There was simply nothing else for it.

When they reached the lot, pulling into the main gate beneath a garish, fluorescent orange-painted arch which read ‘Mahoney’s Used Vehicles and Scrap’, Will was disheartened to see that the place was more like a junk yard than a sales lot. There were several cars and old vans near the entrance which had been stripped and apparently abandoned, and as Archie swung the car around to park facing the gate revealing even more partially-scrapped piles of rusted metal on their right, Will sighed inwardly. The niggling pulse of a headache twitched behind his eyes.

“I’ll wait here while you go shoppin’,” Archie said, opening his glove compartment and pulling out a battered, rolled up magazine, yet another on the subject of sports cars. “The guy who owns this place is named Jack. Tall guy, real skinny, he’ll probably be in his office.”

Will nodded silently and exited the car. He started to walk in the opposite direction of the main gate, watching for the owner while at the same time trying to single out any cars which still looked roadworthy. The place was definitely mostly scrap, and there were a few cars dotted around which looked like they might collapse in a strong breeze, the further up the lot Will walked. It also appeared that the lot stretched a lot further back than was apparent from the entrance.

“Hey there, can I help you?” a voice called to him.

He turned and saw who he assumed to be the owner heading towards him; a very tall and thin man wearing a grubby mechanic’s jumpsuit, with a thick mess of black hair.

“Hi, are you Jack?” Will replied, forcing a smile as the man's name caused the stern face of Jack Crawford to appear and glare at him in his mind. “I was told I could pick up a second hand car here.”

Jack nodded with a bright, friendly smile in return as he reached Will. “Jack Mahoney, and you certainly can,” he said cheerfully. He must have noticed the slight strain of Will’s smile, as he gestured around them with one arm, “don’t let all the junk fool you, I have a bunch of good cars for sale, they’re just up the back of the lot near my office.”

Will felt a warm flood of relief rush through him, and his smile became a genuine one. 

“I admit, I got a little worried when I arrived,” he conceded, reaching out for a polite handshake. “Chris Castle. I’m really in need of a car. My last one was a heap of crap, and it broke down a good few miles back. I’d be easier picking up another than having to have that one towed and fixed, assuming it even could be fixed. It had been ready to give up the ghost for a long time.”

“Yeah it’s mostly the scrap up this end, ‘cause that’s what most people come here for; to offload their dead cars and buy parts for others,” Jack explained as he shook Will's hand, “I don’t get many buyers of the ones that actually run. Come on, I’ll show you where the roadworthy ones are.”

Will obliged, and followed the tall man in the direction he’d come from.

Jack glanced back at him curiously twice before asking, “So what happened to you? You look like you’ve had a damn hard beat down.”

“Yeah, I was set on by a group of pricks yesterday, typical drunk guys looking for a fight,” Will replied. “Guess I looked like an easy mark since I was alone.”

“That’s rough, they sure did a number on you; that gash on your face looks like they stuck you,” Jack said with sympathy. “Drink’ll make a man act in all kinds of dumbass ways. That’s why I don’t touch it anymore.” He pulled an AA milestone token from his pocket and held it up in his fingers for Will to see, before flipping it and catching it like a lucky coin, then returning it to his pocket. 

“Good for you, man,” Will replied, though the thought of a double whisky entered his mind and seemed like heaven right at that moment. His nerves could certainly use it, though he figured it would be a terrible idea while he was taking painkillers and antibiotics. He thought longingly of the bottles he’d taken from the cliff house, but knew it really wouldn’t be sensible to imbibe.

Jack gave an appreciative hum, then after another couple of minutes of walking, he pointed straight ahead and looked back at Will again, “Up there. They’re all for sale. Most of them are empty but I sell full canisters of gas and diesel. I’ll be in my office over there.”

“Thank you,” Will said, watching as the man headed away towards his office, which appeared to be a modified shipping container rather than a building.

Will walked straight on as directed, and soon met an expanse of the lot containing vehicles that looked in good shape. The first couple he came to were compact cars, two-seaters, far too small to be comfortable for a pair of injured men if they had to stay in it for several hours. He noticed a large SUV, probably not more than four years old, which had far more room inside, though was less conspicuous than the vehicles surrounding it, and he was pretty sure it would consume fuel at a much higher rate. Stopping at gas stations with their many security cameras was something he’d prefer to do as infrequently as possible.

He spotted a Toyota not unlike that which had driven him here, and as he moved to take a closer look, he suddenly heard a couple of voices coming from his right, at the far end of the first line of cars. One of the voices rapidly became a shout, and the prickle of alarm ran up Will’s spine. 

He quickly turned to see what was going on, and his eyes widened, mouth open in a gasp.

_Holy shit…_


	4. A Motel on Wheels

_…Perfect…_

Will began to walk in the direction of the owners of the voices, a pair of short, stocky men in jeans and baseball caps. He quickly deduced from their loudened conversation that they were brothers, one a few years older than the other, and they were there looking at cars for the son of the younger one; a birthday gift, most likely. The older brother seemed to think that going to a showroom and buying a new car would be better for the boy’s reputation; the younger was yelling that his son was a reckless idiot who would most likely ruin his first car, ergo he wasn’t willing to shell out the money for a new one.

Their squabble didn’t interest Will in the slightest, but the vehicle on the lot parked about ten feet behind the bickering brothers did. He hurried past them before they could attempt to engage him in their debate, and approached the vehicle, his weary eyes gleaming.

It was an RV. An old, fairly small model, but it appeared in solid shape. Will reached up to tug the handle of the door outwards, and it opened with a faint _clunk_. He grunted quietly as he stepped up through the open doorway – the fold-down step was missing – and entered the open-plan cabin.

The air smelled musty, and the surfaces looked gritty with dust. However, after a quick look around, Will saw that it was surprisingly free of grime or mildew. He stood in the kitchen area, which consisted of two pairs of cabinets, both on the wall and below the small sink; a double electric hob, and an empty slot for either a microwave or mini fridge. Will opened each of the cabinets, finding most of them empty, though one contained a few mugs, a metal tea kettle, and some cooking pots.

As he passed, Will ran his hand over the top of the little built-in breakfast table that stood to the side of the kitchen leading to the bathroom, before opening the narrow door of the bathroom cubicle. It was claustrophobically small, containing only the toilet bowl, and an even smaller shower space behind a frosted-glass partition. He opened it, and turned one of the taps; after a moment and a slow gurgling noise, water spurted from the shower head above. Will knew that the water in the tanks would be old and need changing before it could be used, but at least the system worked.

He ducked out of the bathroom and forward to the driver’s booth, sweeping aside the colourful, plastic bead curtain; a whimsical attempt to separate the booth from the rest of the cabin. He noted gladly that there was room to move between the booth and the cabin without having to exit the RV. The previous owner had left a pair of cracked sunglasses on one seat, and the junk-filled glove compartment hung open with a visibly broken latch that would keep it from staying closed, but the overall condition appeared decent. There was a sticker in the centre of the steering wheel, featuring a pale-skinned, bikini-clad woman with her arms up behind her head, and her smiling, bright red lips matched the shade of her curly hair. She reminded Will instantly of Freddie Lounds, and he unwittingly scowled.

He then turned and made his way to the opposite end of the RV, this time checking the taps on the sink as he passed through the kitchen, pleased to see that they also worked. There was a slim, floor-to-ceiling fitted closet just beyond the kitchen, which was empty save for an umbrella and a few dust bunnies. He reached up to a shelf suspended above, and discovered a sizeable first aid kit; he lifted it down, gritting his teeth against the surge of pain in his shoulder, and opened it to look inside. 

It was almost full, and Will reached in to rummage eagerly through it; many of the items clearly hadn’t come with the kit originally, and had been stocked specifically by whomever had owned the RV. There were bandages, a box of latex gloves, plenty of gauze and cotton pads, cotton swabs, medical lubricant, a few over-the-counter packets of ibuprofen and paracetamol, there was even a cheap blood pressure cuff, and a box of blood sugar testing strips and lancets; no saline, but it was a fortuitous find nonetheless. Will closed the box and returned it to the shelf.

Directly beside the closet was another brightly-coloured beaded curtain, which Will pushed aside, expecting a bedroom; the term ‘bedroom’ had never been more literal than it was for what lay in front of him. The entirety of the room contained only a bed; no cupboard, no nightstand, no visible floor; just a square-shaped bed that was wall-to-wall, probably made to measure for the RV since it was obvious a regular store-bought bed would never fit. 

There was a dark blue curtain hanging over the room’s single window, and a tiny air vent at the very top of the wall. There was no duvet or bedding, only two bare pillows and the mattress. Will’s nostrils flared as he breathed in deeply; the air was a little stale, like the rest of the place, but there was definitely no damp, and the mattress was even and without stains. He reached out a flattened hand to pat it a few times; it felt firm, and very little dust rose up. 

He was aware that the cramped space would have to house both he and Hannibal, as neither of them could possibly sleep comfortably on the slim-line bench beside the breakfast table. They would have very little room; the bed was barely a king, and he doubted that either of them would even be able to fully stretch out. If one of them rolled over in their sleep, they would more or less wind up in the arms of the other. Will swallowed and retreated from the little room, quickly making his way back outside.

The brothers’ argument had cooled down somewhat, though the debate continued. Will squatted to have a look underneath the RV, checking the condition of the water and toilet tanks; both looked fine, no suggestion of leaks. The tyres were in good shape too. He walked right around the RV once, taking it in from every angle, and was satisfied with its condition. He knew he couldn’t settle for anything else on the lot; this was exactly what they needed.

Their own mobile bathroom, kitchen and bed; a motel on wheels they could take anywhere. They could go wherever they felt was best, and wait out the initial heat of police activity while they rested and healed. It would be confined, uncomfortable, basic, and probably become terribly tedious to them both before long, but it would be far safer than the alternative. There would be no need to check in anywhere else, no need to show his face to a slew of motel managers or risk Hannibal’s face being seen, no potential trail left for the FBI… 

_Perfect!_

Will made his way over to the office and stuck his head inside, knocking gently against the metal wall to get Jack’s attention.

“Hey again, did you see a car you like?” the man asked, getting up from his paperwork-cluttered desk.

“Actually, I like the RV,” Will replied. 

Jack raised an eyebrow, “The old motor home? That’s an odd choice as a replacement for a car.”

Will shrugged casually and gave him a nonchalant smile. “I’ve wanted one for years, but never had the opportunity to buy. My wife, she was always adamant it was a waste of money. We’re not together now, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t go for it, now the opportunity presents itself.”

When the unconvinced look of curiosity on Jack’s face didn’t abate, Will thought quickly.

“Look, we just recently separated, and to be honest, I really need to get away for a little while,” he continued in a low, confidential tone. “She had a really bad drinking problem, and it made her so hard to talk to, she was so unreasonable all the time… I haven’t enjoyed anything for myself in a long time. I guess that’s what this would be. Finally something for me that she has no control over, you know?”

Just as Will had hoped, Jack’s expression immediately softened at the mention of an alcohol problem. 

“I totally get it, friend,” he sympathised, “I was a stubborn asshole when I was drinking, I made life Hell for my girlfriend on more than one occasion. She always wanted to go dancing with me, and I always refused; I’d rather get hammered than go line dancing, or whatever. I don’t even think it necessarily needed to be dancing, just… something, with me. The booze made me not care that I was stopping her from having a life.” 

He reached out to pat Will’s arm supportively. Will set his mouth in a pained line, feigning painful memories, and reciprocated the gesture, clapping his hand appreciatively on Jack’s shoulder. 

“Thanks for understanding,” he said, creating a waver in his voice.

Jack waved his hand in the air, dismissing the moment. “No problem. If you want to buy the motor home, I’ll happily sell it to you,” he said with a smile. “One of the cars or a van would be much cheaper, but I guess you’re not too worried about the cost if you reckon you can afford an RV off the cuff?”

It crossed Will’s mind then that he really ought to have asked Hannibal what the limit was on the credit card he’d taken, but since the doctor would routinely spend over a thousand dollars on one bottle of brandy, and God only knew how much more than that on a single tailored suit, Will knew there was a good chance the limit would be the highest available.

“It won’t be a problem, my business is doing really well now that I can focus on it with a clearer head, without the stress at home,” Will confirmed. “What’s the going price for an RV like that?”

“Well it is a fully functional motor home; a pretty small and old model admittedly, but still in great condition,” Jack replied. “Now, I’m not in the habit of swindling good people, especially those who are coming through a bad time; anyone else, I’d say fifteen grand, but for you, how’s thirteen sound?”

“I appreciate the discount, Jack. That sounds more than reasonable to me,” Will said, holding out his hand to shake.

There was a flutter of surprise on Jack’s face for a moment, and then he eagerly took Will’s hand in his own and shook it firmly, beaming brightly. Will figured the man had been expecting him to haggle, as most people probably did, but since he wasn’t actually concerned about the cost, he had decided not to bother. The quoted price had been more or less what he’d thought it would be, and it was a fair price despite the age of the RV; considering how much the vehicle would be worth to him from a non-monetary perspective, Will would have still paid had Jack asked for twenty thousand.

“I take it you had a look inside, checked it out?” Jack asked him, as he unlocked one of a string of filing cabinets that spanned most of the length of the wall behind his desk, looking for the keys.

“Yeah, everything looked good,” Will affirmed, then added, “Gas or diesel? I’ll buy a couple of canisters. One to fill her up, and a spare.” He gritted his teeth together as he subtly rolled his shoulder, its ache having flared from the vigorous handshake.

“That model is gas,” Jack answered, “and you’ll need to flush the water system, refill the tanks. If there’s any water left in there, it’s at least two months old. There’s a hose pump here you can use to flush it if you want, but it’s not drinking quality so you can’t fill up the main tank with it.”

“That’d be helpful, thanks.”

Will didn’t want to spend any longer at the scrap yard than he had to, but he’d need to get the RV ready to be habitable, and if he could get started here then it meant he’d be able to spend less time at a gas station with security cameras. He made a mental note to write out a list of things he’d have to pick up while filling the water tank when he did stop at a gas station; anything to save him time and make the stop as quick as possible.

Jack found what he’d been looking for, exclaimed as much, and then locked the cabinet. He returned to Will and held up the keys to the RV. They were on a keychain, with a crudely-painted, unidentifiable plastic animal.

“Let’s do this!” he grinned. 

Aching, tired, and desperate to leave already and get back to Hannibal at the motel, Will steeled himself and grinned cheerfully in return.

********************

Almost an hour later, Will’s injuries were throbbing, and the ache in his head was slowly making it more and more difficult to concentrate.

Jack had graciously helped him release the tanks and empty the small amount of old water that had been left inside the main tank, and let him use his pump to flush through the RV’s system twice. Thankfully, the black tank for the toilet had been empty. The ins and outs of motor home care wasn’t something that Will was particularly familiar with, but the yard owner was very knowledgeable, sharing important information and offering maintenance tips as they worked. He also gave Will a canister of a liquid treatment to go inside the toilet tank, free of charge, and helped him to set the tank up with a measure of the chemical and water from the hose.

As Will had expected, but to his relief nonetheless, payment had gone through smoothly on the credit card. He’d filled out his information on the paperwork Jack gave him, all false details of course, though Jack had barely glanced at the forms when he took his copies to stuff back into his filing cabinet, excited to have made such a lucrative sale. The man hadn’t even batted an eye when Will told him he had no ID because his ‘attackers’ had stolen most of his things.

Having filled the gas tank and then stowed the extra canister inside the RV’s tall closet, Will took a moment to rest, sitting down on the mattress and slumping forward with a long, unrestrained yawn. He yearned for more pain pills, to soothe his headache as much as his knife wounds. He also noticed that his stomach had begun to churn uncomfortably, and realised he hadn’t eaten since he and Hannibal had first arrived at the clifftop house, and even then, it had been a quick, basic snack of cheese and oatcakes while Hannibal had changed out of his prison jumpsuit. Hannibal himself hadn’t eaten since then, either. They’d been so exhausted and in so much pain after everything that had happened, food hadn’t been a priority, or even a consideration, for either of them. They would have to eat as soon as possible; they’d need their strength to heal, and to be able to take care of any trouble they might run into.

Will exited the RV, glad that the brothers who had been car-shopping had finally chosen something a half hour earlier, so he hadn’t had to listen to them argue the entire time he and Jack had been busy with the water. He made his way down to the scrap yard entrance, where Archie was waiting, having been promised another hundred dollars if he would hang around so that Will could follow him back. The road back to the motel was fairly straight with very few turn-offs, and Will knew he could make it back without his guide, but the idea of the manager getting back to the motel first – and with the time to spare, possibly deciding to go snooping in room eight, where Hannibal lay vulnerable – set Will’s teeth on edge.

“I’m all set,” he said, after rapping at the window to alert a startled Archie to his presence. “I’ll pull up behind you in a minute, then we can head off.”

Archie yawned loudly. “Sure thing. Will you be stoppin’ at the station we passed on the way here…?”

Will knew the man was thinking of the extra hundred dollars he’d been promised which, as far as he knew, Will would need an ATM to retrieve. The service station Archie was referring to had been a very small one, with only one gas pump and one diesel, no car wash or other amenities, so the tiny store inside probably didn’t have much more than booze and junk food. It wouldn’t be of much use to Will, and he’d rather not stop anywhere he didn’t really have to.

“No need. You’ll never believe it, but I found an old money clip in my new glove box, it had two hundred bucks in it!” Will lied, subtly reaching into his pocket to peel off two bills, and scrunched them up before pulling them out. “Hey man, for waiting on me and helpin’ me out like this, you can have it all. What the Hell.”

Archie clapped a hand against his knee with a great big grin, as Will opened the car door to hand him the crumpled money, then dug in his pocket to retrieve the rest of what he owed him for the ride to the scrap yard. Archie gleefully made a show of counting out his day’s earnings, before rolling up the cash and tucking it into his shirt pocket.

“Pleasure doin’ business with ya,” he winked, turning the ignition to start the car. “Let’s get going!”

“Be right there,” Will nodded, closing the door and jogging back to where the RV and Jack were waiting.

“You’re good to go,” Jack said, holding out Will’s copies of the purchase information. 

“Thank you for all your help, you’ve been great,” Will replied genuinely, taking the papers and stuffing them under one arm. He held out his other hand once again for Jack to shake, which he did.

“Thank you too, for spending so much,” Jack laughed. “You take care of yourself now, don’t go getting into any more scrapes; and if you go out looking for company, don’t go looking for it in a bar, huh?”

Will smiled broadly in response, ignoring the ache it caused his cheek, and turned to climb up into the RV via the driver’s side door. He dropped the papers onto the passenger seat and turned the ignition, the whatever-animal on the keychain swinging happily from side to side. As the engine came to life, Will lowered the window to adjust the wing mirror, and pulled the RV carefully away from the cars to the side of it. As he swung around in the direction of the exit, he put his hand out of the window to wave at Jack, who raised his hand in a cheerful salute.

Pulling up behind Archie’s car, Will pressed the horn to let him know it was him; the noise from the horn was weedy, and might be difficult for another driver to hear on a busier road. Archie heard it well enough however, and Will saw the man’s eyes in his own wing mirror widen in surprise, before he stuck a chubby arm out of his window to give Will an enthusiastic thumbs up for his vehicle choice. Will held up his hand to acknowledge it, and prepared to follow as Archie’s Toyota began to move forwards.

****************

He hadn’t driven a vehicle any bigger than the average car before, but Will was surprised to find that manoeuvring the RV wasn’t too difficult. He drove at a slower speed than he normally would, getting to grips with the reduced visibility compared to a standard car, quickly learning that he’d need to take greater care when braking and making turns; it handled very well, and in spite of its age and extensive mileage, Will was delighted with his purchase. It was the solution to possibly his biggest concern, and knowing that he and Hannibal would be able to avoid being seen at other motels, hotels, or whatever, was a huge weight off his weary shoulders.

When Will pulled in at the motel a half hour later, moments behind Archie, he deliberately parked directly in front of room eight, instead of at the designated parking area in front of the office. He didn’t want to have to back up in the RV, so he turned it enough to face the road by which they’d arrived at the motel; he’d be able to get Hannibal aboard and then drive straight off, after checking out.

After exiting the cab, he turned to locate Archie; the man was standing at the door of the office, fumbling with his keys. Will watched him unlock the door and go inside, letting the door swing shut. Will waited for a few minutes, until he was confident the manager would be settled back in his chair, probably with a car magazine already in hand, and then made his way over to peer cautiously inside, through the glass door. Archie was indeed sitting at the desk, his magazine sitting on the counter ready to be read after he finished opening the sharing-size packet of cheese-flavoured chips he’d had stashed beneath the desk.

Will’s stomach grumbled at the sight of the bag; even though chips were definitely not among his preferred snack foods, at that moment, he was sure that he could have gladly polished off the whole bag by himself, as Archie clearly intended to do. Will retreated to his room and unlocked it, looking around once more just to be sure nobody was there to see, before slipping inside and locking it behind him again.

Hannibal stirred on the bed at the click of the turning key. He grunted with pain as he tried to prop himself up on his elbows, and looked over at Will with half-open eyes.

“Time to go?” he asked groggily.

Will nodded and began to move around the room quickly, gathering up whatever was theirs to pack in the overnight bag. He also took the empty IV bags and the used medical supplies from the bathroom, stuffing them into a pocket of the bag; he then took one of the towels and began to wipe any potential fingerprints off the surfaces he could remember them touching. He even lifted the small amount of his hair from the shower drain and flushed it down the toilet.

“Did you acquire a car?” Hannibal asked, slowly hoisting himself into a sitting position and moving his legs off the side of the bed. 

“Better,” Will replied, fetching Hannibal’s shoes and bending down to put them on for him. Hannibal cocked his head expectantly, and Will added, “You’ll see in a minute.”

After helping Hannibal to his feet, Will looked down at the bed, thinking of the sweat and strands of hair that would be on it. He quickly stripped the pillows of their cases, and the bed of its sheet, and forced them into their straining bag. He zipped the bag closed, lifted it in one hand, and went to Hannibal’s side to support him with the other.

Will opened the door a little and poked his head out for a final cursory glance, before pulling it open fully and helping Hannibal step outside. The older man looked up at the waiting RV, his lips parting slightly in surprise.

“Excellent, Will,” he said with admiration, “our very own mobile motel.”

“We’ll need to stop at a gas station to fill the water tank that feeds the kitchen and the shower,” Will replied as he carefully leaned Hannibal against the side of it, so he was free to open the door. “The step is missing so climbing up will hurt, but I’ll go up first and help pull you, alright?”

Hannibal nodded, steeling himself for the pain to come. Will stepped up into the RV with the bag, dropping it just inside, then stood in front of the open door with his arms outstretched. He gritted his teeth against the sharp ache awaiting in his shoulder, as Hannibal took his hands and used Will’s strength to hoist himself upward, with a low groan of pain. Hannibal stumbled slightly once his feet were inside the RV, collapsing forward against Will with another harsh, pained grunt.

Will held onto him for a moment, allowing him to catch his breath. His hair smelled of sweat and ocean water. His large frame was heavy against Will’s leaner one, and Will closed his eyes, able to feel just how weary the other man was. The faint rattle in Hannibal’s lungs was almost drowned out by the rumble of his breathing close to Will’s ear. Will could feel the sheer weakness in the doctor, someone who normally had such power rippling just beneath the surface, and the absence of that familiar strength frightened Will.

“I’ll help you to bed,” he said softly. 

Hannibal didn’t reply, but Will felt the faint movement of his head in a nod of acquiescence. Wrapping his arm firmly around Hannibal’s middle, Will led him to face right, guiding him to the beaded curtain which concealed the bedroom. Pushing the curtain back, Will made a mental note to take it down soon, as the little beads knocking together made a flurry of soft clicks which grated on his frayed nerves.

“Cosy,” Hannibal murmured, upon seeing the bed which took up the whole space.

“I know there’s not a lot of room,” Will replied in an apologetic tone, “and this is the only bedroom, but we’ll have to make do. Hopefully being so cramped won’t exacerbate our pain. I’d have gone for a larger model had there been one available.”

“It’s perfectly fine, Will,” Hannibal assured him. “It alleviates the need to book a room anywhere else, which is the important thing.” He gestured in the direction of the motel, “Not all places we would come to would be as fortunately unpopulated as this. Choosing a motor home really was a stroke of genius.”

“I knew I had to buy it as soon as I saw it,” Will said, lowering himself to help Hannibal sit down on the edge of the bed. “The idea of not having to deal with other motels and the people in them was more than a little appealing.”

He gathered the stolen bedding from the motel room out of the overnight bag, and spread the sheet out as best he could behind Hannibal. He put the cases on the pillows, and then helped Hannibal shimmy over onto the mattress on his back. Finally, Will took the blanket he’d brought from the cliff house and shook it out on top of Hannibal and the rest of the bed. It wasn’t the warmest set-up in a heating-free motor home, but the room was small, and with the two of them in the enclosed space, he figured it would warm up at least some; if not, they’d just have to put up with the cold. They didn’t have much choice, after all.

Hannibal unbuttoned his shirt with the intent to strip again, since the fabric rubbing against his bandages was intensely aggravating, and Will noticed the spots of blood against the white of the bandage immediately. He knelt on the bed to get a closer look, helping Hannibal shrug off the shirt.

“Climbing up through the door must have strained the wound and set it off bleeding it again,” Will frowned. “I need to check out of the motel and get us out of here, will you be alright to put pressure on it for a little while?”

“I’ll be fine,” Hannibal said with a small cough, beginning to undo the button on his trousers.

Will reached down to tug them off for him, averting his eyes once again from Hannibal’s shameless nudity.

“You’re going to get cold,” he muttered, bundling up the slacks and tossing them to the bottom of the bed alongside the discarded shirt. 

“I’ll take being a little chilly over the frightful friction of the waistband against my injuries,” Hannibal replied, placing a hand firmly over the bandage on his abdomen with a wince.

“We’ll have to get some loose pyjamas or something, or we’ll both freeze,” Will sighed, pulling the blanket up to cover Hannibal to the shoulders. “Once we’re safely away from here, I’ll pull in at a gas station, and get some supplies while the tank fills. Then we really need to eat. I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.”

Hannibal nodded in agreement. “I’ve been too tired to think about food, but now that you mention it, yes, I’m starving.” He closed his eyes as Will rested the back of one hand against his forehead to check his temperature. “Although, I don’t imagine a gas station store will have much in the way of appetising fare.”

Satisfied that there was still no sign of fever, Will withdrew his hand, and shuffled his way off the bed.

“We won’t have anything remotely like the quality of your cooking for a while, I’m afraid,” he said bemusedly. “The kitchen has a couple of hobs and cooking pots, but I think we’ll mostly have to resort to basic canned garbage for now.” He held the curtain open and glanced back over his shoulder at the cabin interior, before adding, “We have a toilet and shower at least, though it’s like a sardine can in there. There’s a small breakfast table, and a little bit of storage space. I found a big first aid kit too, although I think we’ll have to make our own saline. I’ll buy a tub of salt when I’m getting some other stuff.”

“Where are we going?” Hannibal asked him. 

The question was broader than perhaps he had intended, and more so than Will could answer right then, so he simply shrugged, “I’m not sure yet. I don’t know what the FBI have ascertained about us from the scene at the clifftop, but Jack Crawford will probably play it safe and assume we’re both still alive. I think he would expect us to head along the coast, maybe with the intention of securing a boat. He knows I can sail. Or he might think we would move up towards New York, or Maine, maybe even as far as Canada, to elude him. He might believe we intend to board a plane in the midst of a busy city where we would blend in with the crowds.”

After a moment of silent consideration, Hannibal said, “In that case, the best course of action would of course be to do the opposite of what he would expect of you, and move inland. Perhaps in the direction of West Virginia.” He paused and looked cautiously at Will, “It’s difficult to suggest a course of action when we’re talking only in the short term.”

Will held his gaze for several beats.

“I know,” he said finally, his voice quiet. “We’ll head west for now, find somewhere secure and quiet where we can settle the RV; then we can talk about it properly. Ok?”

“Ok,” Hannibal echoed. He gave Will a very slight smile, before closing his eyes again, his hand still pressed painfully against his bullet wound.

Will turned to leave, closing the door behind him once he’d stepped outside, feeling a little dizzy. His shoulder hurt, his face hurt, the hole in his gum was mercilessly throbbing, he felt desperately tired, and his empty stomach was beginning to seriously ache; he couldn’t cope right now with the kind of intense conversation that had threatened to rear its head in the RV. 

He returned the room key to the office, where Archie immediately began to gush about how ‘sweet’ the RV was, what a great investment it was in comparison to a car, and how it would be a novelty that would greatly interest women.

“Well, what can I say, I’ve always wanted one,” Will nodded along, barely listening to the man’s rambling, wanting nothing more than to tell him to shut the Hell up so he could leave; but, he’d been polite thus far, and he didn’t want to stick out any more than was necessary in the man’s memory by suddenly insulting him.

“I wanted one myself when I was a younger man, but now, it’s one of these babies I’ll wind up getting’ eventually,” Archie informed him, happily tapping a page in his sports car magazine. The likelihood of the heavily rotund man comfortably fitting into one of the small, sleek two-seater cars was minimal, but Will humoured him, smiling at the picture in the magazine and agreeing on how it would be simply fantastic to own one.

“Well, I really gotta get going, but thanks again for takin’ me up to the scrap yard. I sure do appreciate it,” Will said, taking advantage of a moment of silence from Archie as the man bent to get a can of soda from his stash beneath the desk.

“No problem Chris, I appreciate your money!” Archie guffawed, waving cheerfully as Will hurried back outside.

Will took a deep breath, and returned to the RV. He entered the cabin and quickly checked on Hannibal, who had dozed off again; there was no further spotting on the bandage, and Will figured that the bleeding must have stopped fairly quickly, which was lucky. He would change the bandage and clean the wound once they’d stopped to eat.

He left Hannibal to sleep, and made his way to the front of the RV, climbing into the driving seat. He rooted around for a moment in the broken glove box, hoping to find a map. There was all manner of junk inside – several opened but unfinished packets of nicotine gum; a balled-up pair of Christmas socks; an extra-large box of Wet N Wild condoms, which was half-filled with empty wrappers, though thankfully not their used contents; a handful of comic strips with ragged edges, suggesting they’d been torn from newspapers; an unused Hello Kitty notepad; a stress ball which had been burst open, exposing the yellow foam within. Amongst all the brick-a-brack, Will finally found a travel book of maps, and began to look at the various places in a westerly direction which might be viable for hunkering down in the RV.

There were several national forests and parks to the west and south-west which were popular with hikers and campers, according to the book. Will knew that a motor home wouldn’t stand out at all in a place like that, and since such spots were popular with visitors, the FBI wouldn’t be likely to think he and Hannibal would choose to hide out in one, even if they managed to find out they had obtained a motor home. 

Despite how busy a well-liked camping ground might be, if they stocked up well enough there wouldn’t even be any need to leave the RV for a few weeks, and Hannibal could make doubly sure he stayed inside out of sight. They could both take it easy and sleep to while away time, which would be the best thing for their healing, and once they were feeling a bit stronger, they could talk seriously about what the future held, and make a proper plan together. As the idea became more solid in his mind, Will could feel his confidence growing; he felt that he was taking a real grip of their reality, and felt grounded in a way that had escaped him for a long time.

He fired up the ignition, the open book still in his lap, and pulled away from the motel, heading back the way they had come. First a gas station for RV water and food, then a pit stop to eat and check their wounds, and he could run his camping park idea by Hannibal. 

When he passed the area close to where they had hidden the stolen police car, seeing that it was just as quiet, undisturbed – and police-free – as it had been the day before, Will actually felt a smile grow across his face.


	5. Not the Same Men

Almost an hour after leaving Archie’s motel, Will pulled the RV into a layby on a reasonably quiet road. He had only been driving for twenty minutes when he’d reached a large gas station, allowing him to fill the useable water tank, and stock up on food and bottled water while the pump did its job. He had no idea how long a full tank would last if they were drinking it as well as using it for the sink and shower, so he figured it would be best to be buy several bottles of spring water to drink first. Afterwards, he’d felt safer with the idea of driving a fair distance away from the gas station before he’d have to stop long enough to eat, and clean his and Hannibal’s wounds.

The cashier in the station store had raised an inquisitive eyebrow at the huge heap of items Will had bought – transferring it into the RV had taken three trips, his shoulder screaming all the while as he lifted the water bottles – but the young woman hadn’t paid undue attention to Will himself in spite of his injured face, and had spent a fair portion of the transaction looking at her cell phone. There had only been two other customers while he was there, and Will was grateful for that, since his anxiety over the possibility of being recognised was scraping the back of his mind like a blunt piece of metal.

While shopping, Will had opted mainly for packets of dried fruit, nuts, and jerky. There turned out to be very little stock of canned food, but there were plenty of boxes of various dried soups and noodles in individual sachets, so he had gathered up an armful of those. He didn’t have much of a sweet tooth, but he’d also taken a stack of candy bars. Two jars of coffee, a tub of salt, some family-sized bags of chips, and a few bags of green pepper salad from the fridge had been his final food choices; the already wilted-looking salad would only be good for a couple of days, but he didn’t know when they’d next have the opportunity to eat anything fresh.

There had been a hat stand near the chiller cabinet, displaying a range of camo baseball caps and fishing hats, plus a rack of souvenir t-shirts, packs of socks, and orange novelty Thanksgiving boxers; they certainly weren’t something he’d normally dream of buying, but he told himself that he didn’t have the luxury of being picky. He had selected a cap, two t-shirts for use as pyjama tops, and a few of the packs of socks and underwear. Large and extra small were the only sizes available, so he’d hoped the large would be alright for both himself and Hannibal.

He had also picked up a picnic-style plastic set of kitchenware which featured two of each item; bowls, plates, cups, knives, forks. They were cheap, flimsy, and looked poorly cut from their mould, and the cutlery would most likely snap under the slightest pressure, but they’d be useful while they lasted. He also opted for a family-size pack of toilet paper. At the counter, alongside the gum and lozenges, were long sheets of stickers, both for children and vehicle bumpers. He took a few, vaguely thinking that it might be wise to alter the description of the RV at least a little, in case the FBI learned about it. He ideally wanted to change the licence plates on it, but he doubted he’d get the opportunity. He cursed himself for not thinking of it while he’d been in the scrap yard.

By the time he’d taken all his purchases onto the RV, the water tank had finished filling, and Will had returned to the cash desk to pay for use of the pump. He’d been disappointed that the station hadn’t contained a TV anywhere, since he was itching to see what was being said on the news. As he reached into his pocket for the cash to pay for the water, his eyes had drifted to a short newspaper rack on his right that he had missed, and he immediately spotted Hannibal’s face on the front pages of six of the eight different titles on offer. Print news was obviously nowhere near as up to date as regular TV reports or the internet, but he’d take what he could get; Will grabbed a copy of each of the different papers to add to his total, relieved as he handed over the money that his own face didn’t appear on any of the covers.

After leaving the station, Will had kept on driving for another twenty five minutes before he could no longer ignore the painful churning of his starved stomach, and the discomfort had finally made him decide to park in the layby. While nothing he’d bought would be particularly tempting to either of them, they needed their strength, and he had reached the point where he would have eaten pretty much anything.

_Even long pig,_ a thought smirked quietly in the back of his mind. He paused only a second, then decided it felt unimportant that the thought had neither shocked nor disgusted him.

Will twisted around and climbed from his seat, stepping through the brightly coloured bead curtain into the kitchen area. He took a pair of mugs and one of the pots from the cupboard on the wall above the stove, washed them free of dust, then switched on a hob. He placed the pot on it and filled it half-way with water from one of the bottles he’d bought, then headed for the bedroom, leaving the water to heat up.

Hannibal had awoken when the RV had come to a stop, and as Will appeared through the bead curtain, Hannibal greeted him with a tired nod. 

“Did you get everything you needed?” he asked, clearing his hoarse throat.

“More or less. I got extra water, food, and some useful bits and pieces,” Will replied, sitting on the edge of the bed where it was almost flush with the doorway, and turning his upper body to face Hannibal. “We need to eat, though there’s nothing I imagine you’re going to like. I’ve got water heating up to make some instant soup. There’s some pepper salad too. It’s pretty desperate looking, but it’s the only fresh thing we’re probably going to get for a few weeks.”

“While soup in powdered form is sure to be an affront to the taste buds, it will do just fine,” Hannibal said, awkwardly trying to push himself up into a sitting position. “Believe me, I have survived on far worse than even the most miserable of gas station cuisine.”

Will knelt up on the bed and crawled across the short space to Hannibal’s side, taking the pillow from what was to be his side of the bed, and helped Hannibal sit forward a little, so he could stuff the pillow in behind him to give him more leverage for sitting up. Hannibal thanked him and leaned back more comfortably against the support of the pillows.

“I don’t imagine you’re a big fan of beef jerky either, but I got plenty of that too,” Will said, leaning back on his haunches. 

“I once made something similar to jerky for a lengthy car journey I was planning to take; but it wasn’t beef,” Hannibal replied, with a knowing tip of his head.

Will didn’t smile but gave a soft laugh through his nose. “I also bought nuts, dried fruit, and a bunch of candy bars. Figured the calories might help the healing process. I got salt as well, so when the saline runs out I can make a substitute.”

Hannibal hummed approvingly. “Once we’ve eaten, we can both take an antibiotic and painkillers.” He glanced down at his bandaged abdomen and added, “Pressure kept the bleed under control. Thanks to our new travel accommodations, I can continue to rest without exerting myself, and this shouldn’t happen again.”

Will also looked down at the scattered red spots that had soaked through the bandage, and a faint crease appeared on his brow, parallel with his thin, faded scar. 

“Can you tell how bad it is?” he asked.

Hannibal thought for a moment, then brought his gaze back up to meet Will’s.

“I’m quite confident the bullet didn’t hit any organs. I’d be feeling much worse if that were the case. My bowel was definitely not perforated, and had I been struck in the kidney, I would have seen blood in my urine earlier,” he replied. “I would hazard a guess that the bullet simply tore straight through muscle. I’m fortunate the bullet passed through; had it been lodged inside me, removal would have been dangerous and difficult. I admit that I’m in a great deal of pain, and I feel unnaturally exhausted, but I’m lucid when I’m awake, which is a good sign; my concussion must be mild. I don’t feel nauseated, and my dizziness isn’t too bad. With time and rest, I should recover well.”

Will quietly digested Hannibal’s words. “What if you developed an infection?”

“Then I would be in trouble, especially if the antibiotics we have aren’t strong enough to fight it,” Hannibal coughed, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. “However, I don’t have a fever, and you are doing an excellent job of taking care of my wounds. There’s a good chance they won’t become infected if I continue taking the Amoxicillin at regular intervals, and if you keep doing what you are doing.” He coughed again, harder, closing his eyes against the pain in his gut.

“And the cough?” Will added. “You obviously inhaled some water into your lungs.”

Hannibal nodded, clearing his throat twice after coughing, replying only after he’d caught his breath. “There’s nothing we can do to help that, but despite the cough, my chest doesn’t feel all that bad. I can still take a relatively full breath. An oxygen machine and mask would be useful, but continuing to rest is all I can do, and allow my body to heal. I do have a very hardy constitution.”

Will was silent for a few seconds, before he slowly nodded in trusting acknowledgement of Hannibal’s medical estimations. 

“Good,” he murmured.

Hannibal tilted his head slightly at that, his eyes on Will, who was staring straight ahead but unseeing, clearly thinking carefully, about what could easily be one of a thousand things. Hannibal watched him wordlessly for almost a minute, until the younger man’s eyes came back into full focus and looked at him.

“That all sounds good,” Will reiterated, as though part of him doubted that Hannibal had believed the sentiment the first time. Or perhaps he’d only wanted to reassure himself, he wasn’t sure.

He didn’t give Hannibal a chance to reply, before clambering off the bed and returning to the kitchen to check on the water, which was beginning to simmer. He busied himself by giving the surfaces a wipe-down with a rag he found in the closet, then went rifling through the gas station bags, fishing out the food items and packing them away into the kitchen cupboards, except for a box of soup sachets and one of the bags of salad. He stashed most of the water bottles in the cupboards beneath the sink, and tucked the rest in the space under the breakfast table bench; on the table, he left the clothes, and then put a stack of toilet paper in the bathroom just behind the bowl. He opened the picnic-ware packaging and set out two plates and forks on the counter beside the mugs, and put the rest away in the cupboards with the other pots.

Finally, he opened one of the empty plastic bags and hooked it onto the lower cupboard door handle to toss garbage into since there was no waste bin, then bundled up the other bags beside the bottles beneath the sink for future use. By then, the water on the hob had become hot enough to make the soup with. He tore open the foil of two of the sachets from the box, which read ‘chicken and leek soup’ in overly-elaborate cursive writing, and tipped the green-flecked powder into the mugs.

He noticed that while one of the mugs was a plain navy blue, the other featured a square photograph, obviously a personalised purchase of whomever had owned the RV previously, or a gift to them. The photo was of a tan-coloured boxer dog, with a human arm wrapped around its shoulders in a hug, though the person had been cropped from the image. Will looked at the comically wide grin typical of the breed, and felt a pang of affection, followed by an unhappy longing for the clamouring faces of his own dogs.

Will knew that Molly would take good care of them, even if she did wind up feeding them the canned food he so disapproved of; they would be safe, their needs would be attended to, Walter would play with them every day. He knew that, but it still hurt knowing he would never see any of them again. The fact that they wouldn’t understand where their beloved master was or that he wasn’t coming back, that in their innocent ignorance they would wait for him in confusion, spiked a deep ache in his empathic heart.

He forced the thoughts down as he lifted the pot from the stove, lest he burn himself while distracted. He carefully filled the mugs with the slightly steaming water, then sighed to himself as he realised he had no metal cutlery for stirring with. He eyed one of the forks, trying to judge just how delicate the plastic looked, and decided to chance it; the water was hot, but he hadn’t let it reach boiling point. He lifted the fork and used the handle end to briskly stir the liquid in both mugs, hoping he’d dislodged any clumps of the powder. The smell that wafted up from the soup was unappetising; bland, yet also sour, somehow.

After running the soup-coated handle under the tap for a moment, he lifted the plates of salad with both forks and took them through to the bedroom. He put one plate down where he planned to sit, and pushed the other over to Hannibal, then quickly returned to the kitchen for the mugs. As an afterthought, he tucked the newspapers he’d bought under his arm to peruse while eating; waiting until later to read them would only mount his frustration.

Careful not to spill any of the soup, he returned to the bedroom and climbed onto the mattress slowly, letting the small pile of papers drop to the bed as he moved to cross his legs. He then handed the blue mug to Hannibal; Will had already decided the one with the dog photo was now his own. 

“Thank you,” Hannibal said as he took the mug, sniffing the creamy-coloured liquid curiously, and took a sip. His mouth twisted slightly in a grimace of displeasure as he swallowed.

Will had expected as much from the man with the grandest palate he’d ever known, but as he had his first small taste, his own mouth contorted similarly. Hannibal glanced at him and saw his expression mirrored, and offered a look of pained commiseration.

“You still think you’ve had worse?” Will asked dryly.

“If you can believe it,” Hannibal affirmed, “but I dare say, not a great deal worse.”

“Maybe it’s just the chicken and leek variety that’s bad,” Will replied, though he didn’t hold out much hope for the other kinds, since they were all of the same brand. 

“Chicken and leek?” Hannibal repeated in a dubious tone. “I’m not even certain this qualifies as food.”

“We better get used to it for a while,” Will replied with a shrug of resignation, and forced down another mouthful, trying to ignore the sharp sting in the hole where his broken tooth had been. 

He reached for one of the newspapers, the cover of which featured a large photo of Hannibal in court when his lawyers were still building his insanity defence, and read over the small block of text that accompanied it. It offered a basic summary of Hannibal’s escape; who Hannibal was, the fact that officers had died – it stated the number of dead, but no names - and that an FBI special agent had gone missing along with the doctor.

Will followed the article onto the next page, and was greeted by another photograph of Hannibal, side by side with one of himself; Hannibal’s expressionless mugshot from his incarceration at the BSHCI, and the passport-style photograph of Will from his teaching staff dossier, his younger face equally inexpressive. The information beneath those pictures was only a little more detailed; it contained a description of Hannibal, a few sensationalist details about his past crimes, and a warning to not approach him if anyone should spot him. Will’s wrongful imprisonment was mentioned, though the information about him concentrated more on his successes with the FBI, and it surmised that he was likely to be a hostage of Hannibal’s. No mention of Dolarhyde; the lack of specifics made Will think that the writer of the article probably hadn’t been able to get anyone from the FBI or police to speak to them.

Three of the other newspapers contained similar details while implying the same hostage theory that Hannibal had obviously kidnapped Will Graham as leverage to aid in his escape, and that the whereabouts of both men were still unknown; however, those stories had included mention of Francis Dolarhyde’s death, as did the articles in the other two papers. While those two papers had subtly implied that Will was possibly not entirely innocent regarding Hannibal’s escape – one of them even referenced Stockholm syndrome in respect to Will’s connection with the doctor – all of them reported that Hannibal was almost definitely the one who had killed Francis. 

Perhaps it was the result of a lack of information or knowledge from the FBI about himself and Hannibal’s situation, but Will was surprised to note that four of the articles had chosen to focus mainly on Dolarhyde, namely on spinning a positive slant around his death. The Red Dragon – though one paper still termed him the Tooth Fairy – was dead; wholesome American families were now safe from the monster which had terrorised their comfortable placidity for months. Will rolled his eyes at that; there was always another one waiting in the shadows. Or, he knew, one brazen enough to loiter in broad daylight.

There were a couple of meek assurances that the ‘cannibalistic monster’ Doctor Lecter would certainly be caught again soon and returned to captivity, or brought down by the police, and there was even a request for a prayer on Will’s behalf by one writer, in hopes it might help ensure his ‘rescue’ from the monster’s clutches. That is, if he was still alive. Will smirked ever so slightly at that; strangers who didn’t know him from Adam were underestimating him, much like everyone else in his life. 

_Almost everyone,_ his mind corrected him.

Hannibal was watching as Will silently pored over the newspapers one after the other, and he noticed the smug little smile tugging at the corner of Will’s mouth. Hannibal chewed on a sliver of pepper from his salad in hopes of ridding himself of the taste of the soup, his empty mug sitting beside him, quietly awaiting information as he watched Will’s expressions switch between frowns of concentration, to mild surprise, to thoughtful contemplation.

Once Will had read through everything of interest, he pushed the newspapers to the side, setting his own empty mug down beside him. He’d barely even noticed that he had finished the soup while he was reading, but he was glad for the distraction. He looked up at Hannibal, and saw that the other man was patiently waiting for him to report on what he’d read.

“There’s a lot of speculation,” Will began. “It’s probably just too soon for them to have gathered much genuine information, but I don’t think the FBI have been forthcoming with the press so far.”

Hannibal nodded, shimmying down somewhat on the bed so he was closer to a lying-down position, and rested one arm up behind his head. “It’s understandable,” he replied. “My escape will be an embarrassing and terrible tarnish on their name. I imagine Jack Crawford will be feeling more than a little sheepish at the moment.”

Will nodded with a wide-eyed expression which said he agreed that sheepish was a gross understatement. “The overall thinking, at least in this selection of news, is that I’m probably your hostage and that you killed Dolarhyde. Nobody is sure if I’m alive. There wasn’t any suggestion that you might not be,” he continued. “If the FBI have already watched the footage on Dolarhyde’s camera from the house, they’ll know you were shot, but they don’t appear to have released that information. Or if they have, it’s not reached print news yet.”

“It’s a pity we don’t have access to Tattlecrime,” Hannibal mused. “I’m sure the tenacious Miss Lounds already knows as much as there is for non-FBI personnel to know.”

“A tablet or laptop would be great, though I somehow doubt this hunk of junk has Wi-Fi,” Will said, working through his salad slowly as he tried to chew only on the uninjured side of his mouth. “I suppose it doesn’t technically matter what’s being said in the news for now, since we have to hunker down for a while regardless, until we’re both better.”

“How are you feeling, Will?” Hannibal asked him suddenly, as though he had been waiting to ask and had just run out of patience.

“Uh, my gum hurts like Hell where I pulled the tooth. My shoulder really hurts, it feels sort of like it’s seizing up,” Will replied, glancing down and placing a tentative hand there. “I probably shouldn’t be moving it around so much. The gash on my face aches. In fact, pretty much all of my body is one big ache right now.” He laughed humourlessly.

Will looked back at Hannibal then and the seriousness of the concern on Hannibal’s face wiped away Will’s weak smile. They looked at each other for a silent moment, and Hannibal took a breath as though he wanted to say something, but exhaled and remained quiet instead. He lowered his gaze a fraction to Will’s cheek injury, as though he were considering it in great detail, then brought his eyes back up to Will’s. There was definitely a question in his eyes, but one he didn’t seem to want to voice.

“I’m Ok,” Will ventured. “If I keep taking the pills and cleaning my wounds too, I’ll be fine.”

Hannibal nodded very slightly, his lips pursed. After a few more seconds of pondering silence, he took another deep breath and appeared to forcibly overcome his reservation.

“Nothing else feels wrong? Anything that might not have been caused by our battle with the Dragon?” he asked slowly, as though choosing his words carefully. “I’m asking as a doctor, to ascertain if there may be something wrong you are attributing to the fight, but which may have been caused... in some other way.”

A spark of understanding flickered in Will’s eyes, and he felt an unexpected bloom of warm appreciation in his chest; Hannibal knew he wasn’t ready to talk openly about the clifftop, and he was actually respecting the matter. Will’s fingers twitched as he restrained the sudden urge to reach over and make some kind of contact with Hannibal; a pat on his shoulder, a touch of his hand, something. Anxiety gently rippled through him then, and he looked away to the blue-curtained window beside them.

“I’m alright,” he said softly. “I still feel cold from the… from the water, but I’m mostly just sore and tired. I don’t feel like it’s anything more serious. Really.”

Hannibal nodded again, appearing satisfied with Will’s answer this time, before closing his eyes and letting his head sink back against the two pillows. Will looked back at Hannibal’s weary face for a moment, before collecting their empty mugs and plates, and returning them to the kitchen.

Will fetched the large first aid kit from the shelf in the closet, and rooted around in their overnight bag for the scattered medical items to put in the kit with the new ones. Will felt reassured looking in the box; there was no chance of going to a hospital even if they really needed one, but they were well-stocked with the basics, and he felt fairly confident they could get by on what they had.

He took the first aid box through to the bedroom, and settled himself beside Hannibal, whose breathing suggested he had fallen asleep, exhausted by conversation and the effort of sitting up and eating. Will looked at the other man’s chest rising and falling, subconsciously frowning once again at the dark bruise peeking out from beneath his chest hair, then looked down at the blood-speckled bandage. 

“Hannibal?” Will whispered, reluctant to disturb his sleep, but knowing it was necessary.

Hannibal mumbled faintly, only opening his eyes once Will had repeated his name a little more loudly.

“I apologise, I dozed off again,” he murmured, as he took a moment to focus on Will in the dim light of the room.

Will shook his head dismissively, “It’s fine. Listen, I was reading a map book I found in the glove compartment, and I was thinking we could head for the Monongahela National Forest, since we spoke about going to West Virginia. There’s a fairly direct route we can take, with no toll stops, and we could be there in about six hours if I only stop for a break once.”

“A place popular with tourists, hikers and campers,” Hannibal observed.

“Where no one would glance twice at a motor home,” Will nodded. “There are RV camping grounds there, but the area is so vast we could probably tuck ourselves away somewhere in the backwoods with minimal contact; a lot of people go there for the solitude of nature and the mountains, after all.” He thought for a moment, then added, “We would run the risk of being pulled up by a ranger if we did that, though. As much as the camping grounds will be busy, it might be better to stay there.”

“I doubt the police would assume we would choose to lay low in such a densely populated place,” Hannibal said thoughtfully, pursing his lips again slightly. “At least, not for more than a day or two. I could sequester myself in here; I’d suggest you also avoid interacting with people as much as possible. We won’t have much chance to see what develops in the news.”

Will nodded again keenly as Hannibal voiced more or less exactly what he had already considered.

“I’m not saying I won’t find it a little nerve-wracking knowing we’d constantly be ten feet away from potentially hundreds of people,” he admitted, scratching briefly at his dark stubble, “but even if Jack Crawford thought we’d try to throw off the FBI by going somewhere well-populated instead of choosing a secluded place, I seriously doubt he’d consider a tourist hotspot as an option. He’ll never expect that we’d be brazen enough put ourselves in such close confines with the public; at least, he’ll never expect that of me. We should assume he’ll be mounting one Hell of a manhunt, on the supposition that we’re both alive.”

“Good old Uncle Jack will be clinging to the hope that you are alive, and reachable,” Hannibal replied, putting a slight emphasis on the last word. He watched Will’s face closely, and he saw the cogs of the younger man’s mind turning and clicking together in thought.

Will’s expression was calm when he looked at Hannibal and simply stated, “He won’t find me. I’m not the man he thinks he’s looking for.”

There was a cool but easy silence between them for a few moments as their eyes remained locked, and Will was reminded of the moments during his therapy years ago, where he and the doctor would sit quietly, almost unmoving, and simply regard one another, each with their own complex thoughts and secret predictions. They’d both had their own agendas, many dangerous thoughts, and there were hidden meanings behind most of their words; now, Will knew, the culmination of all of it was sitting just below the murky liquid surface, the final layer punctured by a fine breathing tube through which those things were absorbing the new air. He could see that for once, finally, their thoughts were very much on the same page of the same dog-eared book. 

The barely-perceptible smile on Hannibal’s lips told Will that the other man was sharing his thought, as though the line between them had blurred so much that it had warped the air around them, and his thoughts were seeping out, made visible in the tiny room. It felt strange to Will that in a moment so familiar, things were so different. He was not the same Will Graham. More strange than that; the man staring into his eyes was not quite the same Hannibal Lecter. The shift was subtle, and might not have been noticeable to anyone else, but it was there.

For just a moment, Will envisioned that the shadows on the wall directly behind Hannibal from the pointed pillow corners had contorted into the tips of antlers, and had the oddest feeling that Hannibal was able to see a similar shadow growing behind him, even though the other man’s caramel-brown eyes had not deviated from his for a second. The low light in the room seemed to be darkening, though the light from the small window hadn’t changed. Will began to feel a little dizzy, and finally blinked; Hannibal mirrored him, and blinked his own eyes.

Will took a deep breath, his fingers twitching again, and his gaze dropped to the first aid kit. “I need to change your dressing, then I’ll give you your pills,” he said quietly. “I’d better get you to the bathroom before putting on the new bandage, though. It’ll be a while before you get the chance again. I’ll hang another IV too, since you’ll be free to sleep for several hours.”

Hannibal remained silent, and simply nodded once in compliance, the shadow of a smile still present.

Will set about the business of helping Hannibal use the bathroom, taking care not to let him bump into anything, which he found difficult in the tight confines of the cabin, especially since he had to stand side by side with the bigger man to support him with his shoulder. They couldn’t both fit comfortably in the tiny bathroom, so Will left him to do his business alone with instruction to call out if he needed assistance.

Will went to the sink and rinsed out Hannibal’s soup mug, annoyed at the lack of a dish sponge and soap, and berated himself again for another thing he should have remembered to do. He knew he should have made a list like he had originally planned so that he wouldn’t forget anything, but in his tired, nervous state, he’d completely forgotten; he sighed irritably at the irony. He filled the mug with water for the pills, and rubbed his tired eyes. Another several hours of driving was going to take a toll on him. He suspected he’d need a nap halfway there, to help him power through; he was already longing to lie down and rest his shoulder.

Once Hannibal re-appeared at the bathroom door, gripping the door frame with a look of discomfort on his face, he took a step forward without waiting for Will and grunted loudly at the jagged ache in his gut as his knees wavered from lack of support. Will quickly moved to grab hold of him again to prevent him stumbling, and walked him back to the bedroom slowly, then lowered him to sit on the edge of the bed. 

“Wait for my help next time,” Will chided, as he gathered up the beaded strings of the bedroom door-curtain into a bunch, and tied them in a chunky knot to hold the damn thing out of the way.

Hannibal sighed and rubbed his temples with his fingertips. “A momentary dizzy spell.” 

Will didn’t chastise further. He could see the frustration in Hannibal’s tensed shoulders, knowing that being so incapacitated was difficult to bear for someone like him; even though the doctor was at least ten years his senior, Will knew that Hannibal’s physical prowess outweighed his own, and that he obviously worked hard to keep himself in excellent shape, even if through necessity rather than vanity. Despite spending three years in prison, Will noticed that Hannibal had managed to maintain his powerful arms and muscular physique, the only real difference being a slightly softer stomach. 

After climbing onto the mattress and aiding Hannibal in getting back over to his side of the bed, Will snapped on a pair of latex gloves from the first aid box, and began the process of changing the dressings. He had already become confidently adept at the process, and it took him less than fifteen minutes to remove the used gauze, pads and bandage, and gently clean both gunshot wounds before packing and covering them again. When he leaned in close to wrap a fresh bandage around Hannibal’s middle, he listened to the sound of his breathing for a moment, and was satisfied that the quiet rattle still didn’t sound any worse.

“I picked up a couple of t-shirts and pairs of underwear for sleeping in,” Will mentioned, as he pulled the blanket up over Hannibal’s lap to conceal his modesty after cleaning the cut on his knee; not that he appeared to have any modesty. “The boxers are Thanksgiving themed, old stock they were trying to get rid of, I guess. I’ll get them for you, if you don’t mind having cartoon turkey tail feathers on your ass.”

Hannibal gave a soft laugh, but shook his head, “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not. At least, not just yet. The chafing of a waistband really is horrifically uncomfortable against a bullet wound. Fabric in general feels abrasive on my skin at the moment; I would even choose not to have the blanket in fact, if it wasn’t for my condition.” 

“Ok… if you’re sure,” Will replied. For just a second, it popped into his head to ask if Hannibal minded that he was still going to wear the makeshift pyjamas, before throwing the thought away as an absurdity. He wasn’t entirely sure why his thoughts were occasionally running off to ludicrous places, but decided his tiredness and his numerous pains had to be messing with his rationality; that, and the change he was noticing in Hannibal that he couldn’t quite pinpoint with his tired mind. It was throwing him more than he understood.

Will quickly set up one of the IV bags, hanging it on the thin metal rod which held up the curtain, after connecting the tube and needle to Hannibal’s hand, then shook out painkillers and antibiotics from their bottles for both he and Hannibal. He retrieved the mug of water from the kitchen and offered it to Hannibal, who took the pills, coughing for a brief moment after he’d swallowed them. Will followed suit, tossing the three little pills to the back of his throat and washing them down with the remaining water in the cup.

Hannibal lay down properly and stretched himself out as comfortably as he could, and watched as Will closed the first aid kit and collected up the used supplies. Hannibal’s eyes were heavy once again, and now that he was lying down more comfortably, sleep was rapidly closing in.

Will made to shuffle his way off the bed, glancing at Hannibal before he stood up.

“You’ll be fine for the next few hours, then?” he asked, even though he knew it was a redundant question. 

Hannibal smiled faintly at the younger man’s oddly awkward concern. “Yes. Thank you, Will,” he replied, his voice thick with encroaching slumber. “I’m quite content.”

Will studied the other man for a moment as he quickly drifted into unconscious, as though Will might be able to glean the subtext of the word he had used for the second time, and read the explanation of contentment on his face like written words; however, most of Hannibal’s expression was gone without wakefulness, and if there was anything there to be read, it wasn’t within Will’s capacity for understanding.

Dropping the soiled bandages and supplies into the makeshift trash bag on the kitchen cupboard door, Will then washed his hands and attended to his shoulder and cheek at the breakfast table. The deep-rooted throbbing in his shoulder was probably going to mean he’d need to drive with only one hand on the wheel. Although the pulsing pain in his gum was driving him crazy, he did grudgingly accept that it seemed to be distracting his nerves somewhat from the wound in his cheek. He could faintly taste blood after he’d rinsed his mouth with saline, but not enough for it to bother him. He was used to his own blood, far more so than a person should be.

One he was done, he binned the gauze he’d used and returned the first aid box to the closet. He picked up the packs of stickers he’d bought and exited the RV, looking around cautiously for anyone else who might have pulled into the same layby, but there was no one. He took a welcome breath of the fresh air and began slapping a few bumper stickers on both the front and back of the RV – a range of generic phrases, mostly, such as ‘how’s my driving?’ and ‘I break for yard sales’ – and then hurriedly peppered the cabin door with a handful of the children’s stickers. He regarded them all; a collection of robots, kawaii kittens, dinosaurs, and sentient food – cartoonish lollipops, hamburgers and bagels with manic eyes and jovial grins – looked back at him. The decorations didn’t change the appearance of the motor home much, but it had made him feel better to do something.

He climbed back into the cabin and spent several minutes making himself a mug of strong black coffee. Even in his old ‘normal’ life, randomly falling asleep at the wheel was always an irrational fear that had lingered in his mind when he drove, and that hadn’t changed. Fatigue had burrowed so deeply into his bones, he wasn’t sure if even a week’s uninterrupted sleep would help dig it out; however, he had a suspicion that his anxiety would help keep sleep at bay, and the clout of the coffee bolstered his confidence that he was unlikely to doze off. He told himself if there were any quiet off-roads within the next couple of hours, he could take the nap he expected to be craving before long if he really had to.

After he’d finished his coffee and used the bathroom, he climbed back into the driving seat from the cabin. He glanced at himself in the wing mirror; his bruised cheek looked puffier than he remembered, but he was quite certain there was no infection, and figured the swelling was simply from the trauma of the blade. The bruise looked as though it might continue creeping up as far as his eye. His right eye was a little bloodshot. He scowled at his reflection; he wasn’t a vain man by any means, but he knew he looked God-awful, and it irritated him that he looked as rough as he felt.

Sticker-Freddie on the steering wheel beamed up at him, and he decided immediately he wasn’t going to put up with her for the whole journey. He went to grab a few of the leftover stickers from where he’d dumped them in the kitchen, and covered the pin-up with a pair of cheerful, heart-eyed kittens, a beaming ice cream cone, and a dancing pink Triceratops. 

_Much better._

Will rubbed the wound-free side of his face with his palm for a moment, then smoothed back his brown curls, which immediately bounced back. He took several deep breaths, forcibly drawing his concentration to the task at hand, and willing himself to deal with the pain until the pills kicked in and gave him some relief. He turned the ignition on, and listened to the engine rumbling for a minute as he double-checked the route in the map book, before setting it down on the passenger seat for referring to again later. 

Finally, he took hold of the wheel and pulled the RV out of the layby. Even if he wound up stopping to sleep, he figured they would reach their destination in the early evening. He would definitely need to rest a while and try to straighten himself up before attempting to talk to any staff at the forest park; the last thing he wanted was to attract extra attention, or give anyone a reason for him to stay in their mind.

He looked down at the smiling stickers on the wheel.

“Here we go,” he muttered to them, and re-joined the main road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I got a mention in there of a sentient bagel, I love every single one of you who knows that deal.


End file.
